


Fantasia Fourteen

by countessofbiscuit



Series: Let Me Count The Ways [3]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Bodyguard Romance, Chivalry, Coruscant, Coruscant Guard, Date Night, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, First Time, Fluffy fucking, Galactic Republic, Multiple Orgasms, Sensual Bathing, Size Difference, Sweets and Sweethearts, Worldbuilding, a day in the life, and for my next trick, high romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-04
Updated: 2020-08-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:34:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25697389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/countessofbiscuit/pseuds/countessofbiscuit
Summary: Commander Fox has received a summons. He’s been requested at Senator Chuchi’s new residence to collect some gratuitous delicacies she's received. House-warming gifts are a thing, and though a great presumption, he wants to leave something lasting in the wake of any confectionary he sweeps away for his men. It’s the thought what counts and all that kark ... but she deserves something better than plastoid.
Relationships: Riyo Chuchi/CC-1010 | Fox
Series: Let Me Count The Ways [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1866736
Comments: 18
Kudos: 206





	1. Presto

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tiend](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiend/gifts).



> Some tracks for the Foxiyo feels include “Lullaby” by Ö, Növak, “In Your Eyes” by Mree, and “Mistake” by Owsey, Ayelle. 
> 
> The rating is earned in Chapter 3.
> 
> For the charming prelude, see [baffled by her sin](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25795426) by tiend.

The gems in the case were brilliantly cut. They refracted light from every possible direction to twinkle like the skyscape against the blanket of night.

They captivated, to a point. Fox couldn’t quite escape the glare of his white plastoid chest in the glass. 

It was distracting. It served as a stark reminder that _he_ was _here,_ where he had no real business to be, although this obscure office tucked along a lower wall of the Senate Building was well within his purview. Fox prided himself on not being clone-obvious; he’d consciously worked to shed his otherness before he’d even broken Coruscant’s atmo. His reflection vexed him. He stepped back a little to soften it.

The gems formed the bulk of a grand collar that had belonged to the Republic’s first Supreme Chancellor, Tarsus Valorum. A gift from the Mining Guild, according to a small placard, with thanks for his reforms to representation in the Senate at the time of Ruusan. Unlike some of the other displays, loans from private collections or planetary governments, this piece had been left to the Republic upon Valorum’s death. The Mining Guild — or rather its new corporate overlord, the Commerce Guild — still had many senators in its pocket, while it aided and abetted all manner of Separatist violence. With grim irony, Fox wondered how many men now fighting the Guild’s customers had been bankrolled against this asset.

“Good morning, Commander Fox,” came a crisp, Coruscanti voice behind him. “I apologize for keeping you waiting.” 

Fox turned from the case. “It’s nothing, Steward Naves,” he said, accepting the proffered porcelain cup and saucer from the sharply-robed human. Fox had done the Republic Chancery a professional favor, and Naves, ever solicitous, was determined to repay it tenfold. 

“Please —” the steward held up a hand “— Llewert.” He was a slight man, despite his regular patronage of Biscuit Baron, which he shared with the station guards every Benduday. Fox didn’t know how he did it without a factory-set metabolism. “And shall I take that for you?” Llewert reached for Fox’s loose bucket. 

Weighing up the worse of the two offenses — denying this awkward offer or letting the fine tea go cold for lack of hands — Fox allowed the civilian to take his helmet and place it on a nearby armchair. 

“And this is a spectacular piece, isn’t it!” Llewert exclaimed, returning to the case. He was all bright-eyed admiration, as if seeing the collar for the first time. “Nearly a millennia old, one of the jewels of the Senate collection. Some of the finest diamonds ever exported from Empress Teta. It was presented to Valorum for introducing functional constituencies. A bit of a funny one, given the headache they caused his descendant!” 

It was unfair, perhaps, to press Llewert on his political opinions; the junior steward was not an influential man, only a well-connected one. But Fox was curious and had little else to offer in the way of conversation. “A bill was introduced last week that would grant the army functional representation after the war,” he said. 

“Oh? Did it pass to committee?”

“No.”

“Ah. That is a shame. But given the climate, I’m not surprised. Such constituencies have their many detractors now. Better for the senator to try again once the war is won.”

Llewert had full faith in the Republic’s ultimate victory, which Fox appreciated, but too much faith in the senator’s ability to call upon the decency of the galaxy at large. Even if that senator was Bail Organa, much respected and admired by his peers and the Guard alike. Fox had not heard the arguments. It'd been a closed session, as were most that didn’t promise utter tedium or positive talking points — agreed upon in advance by Amedda and his PR crony Rugeyan, as far as Fox could tell. Senator Chuchi had recounted the gist of it. _His_ Riyo. 

Fox warmed just thinking of her — and the warmth with which she’d inveighed against her colleagues. Fresh off her own run-in with that most infamous of functional constituencies, the Trade Federation, she’d nevertheless argued as passionately as her dispassionate interest would allow for the troops to be given representation. Fox wished he might have seen her full act, not just the sweary encore in her office. 

In his distraction, Fox’s gaze slid to an ornate medallion pillowed in the next case. He waited for Llewert to come to a natural pause. “What’s that one?” he asked.

“Ah, _yes,_ this might be of interest to you. Awarded to a captain of the Senate Guard some centuries ago — notice the blue ribbon?” Llewert extended his pinky to indicate the length of silk. It offended Fox’s sensibilities on principle, but he held his tongue. “A badge of the Order of Umate,” Llewert continued, “one of the Republic’s most coveted decorations. Reserved for citizens who’ve demonstrated lifelong service to Coruscant. This one is particularly precious.” His pinky zeroed in on the heart of the ornament: a polished brown pebble encircled with diamonds. “We used to incorporate stone from Umate itself. Then a resolution was passed on behalf of the Umate Monks that forbade any more pieces to be carved from the rock.” 

“What do you use now?” Fox asked.

“Stone from Centax-Three. There is little difference, geologically. More often than not, recipients of the Order purchase antique medals, or commission us to do so on their behalf. I spent my first year at the Chancery maintaining the database of discontinued decorations. They’re highly sought after, for the stones and the provenance.” 

Fox shifted his weight on the plush carpet, marvelling again at natborns and their priorities. Balking at a beautiful replica, when the Guard probably wouldn’t receive even a pension for their lifelong service to Coruscant. “Let’s say my good mate Thire was awarded the Order,” Fox said, trying to meet Llewert’s enthusiasm. “I’m guessing I couldn’t purchase this one for him.”

“Unfortunately not. This one's on permanent loan from the family. You’ve probably seen this piece before? In Captain Regulon's portrait that hangs the Senate Guard mess?”

Llewert was full of such charming assumptions, like Fox’s eye for decorative ephemera and his chumminess with the Blueys. Fox shook his head. “I’ve not had that pleasure.” 

“Well, between you and me, their hospitality has decreased in line with their capability. But the portrait is very fine, indeed. By all accounts, Regulon was a roaring chin of a man and it shows.” 

“He deserves another medal,” Fox offered, taking a delicate sip of the acrid tea. “For being dead. He can’t give my men grief and generally be in the way.” 

Llewert chuckled politely. “I’d much rather see _your_ name on the next honors list.” The steward would be waiting some time, but it was a kind thought. “But forgive me, you didn’t come for one of my long-winded tours. Let’s sit down.” 

Llewert invited Fox to a velvet-upholstered chair, next to where his helmet sat in state before an enormous desk. It was one of four in the showroom. The rich wood gleamed with polish, down to the clawed feet and inside the deepest grooves. Fox was impressed. He’d risen early himself to administer some two-fingered devotion to his bike until it shone spotlessly; even if Riyo didn’t want a spin tonight, he wouldn’t have it besmirch her garden. 

“I hope you’re as pleased with this as I am,” Llewert began. He opened a drawer, removing the spare knuckle plate that Fox had loaned him and a small lethris box. “Nuyn, one of our best craftspeople, took especial care with the color matching.” Spinning the box around, Llewert lifted the lid and flipped the silk covering aside with a flourish of magnanimous pride.

A small crystal vulptex gleamed up at Fox. 

“Please,” Llewert prompted, pushing the box further across the baize. “It’s rhodochrosite. Not likely to break.” 

Fox plucked the figurine from its silken hollow. Its red face was as inquisitive as carved rock could be, and it shone a blood-deep red, just like his armor detail. Cloudy white crystals formed its whiskers, forechest, paws, and the tip of its spiky tail. He held it up to the light. “It’s perfect,” he said. Impossible for it to be otherwise, as it was free of charge and designed to Fox’s nonexistent expectations. All because Fox had thrown his weight around at the Derrick Docks, where a corrupt customs official had been dipping into the materiel shipments bound for the Chancery’s workshop. 

Most docks on Coruscant had more holes than a secondhand range disc: the CSF couldn’t be everywhere, and protection rackets conducted business — and a lot of _independent trading_ — in their stead. But in this case, the problem was an enterprising wet squib of a civil servant, who was neither civil nor in the habit of being of service to anyone but herself. She’d first demanded duty be paid on the gold and precious gems marked for the workshop; when the Chancery pointed out that no duty was owed, as the government would simply be charging itself, the shipment was cleared two weeks late, delaying production on a number of important ambassadorial and ceremonial pieces. 

A month later, she tried again. This time she warned that customs was at great pains to prevent shipments — in uninviting, unmarked crates — from being looted on the slow red-tape journey she created for them. Fox discovered that, for her efforts, she’d been skiving a portion for herself. 

With a serious arms-smuggling problem on their hands, CSF's organized crime unit wasn’t interested in investigating stolen baubles bound for ministerial galas or medals for the Senate Guard. In short, they couldn’t be arsed. Llewert had been as free with this sad state of affairs as he was with his biscuits, and a gaggle of guardsmen became aggrieved on their breakfast friend’s behalf. They’d come straight to Rear Marshal Commander Fox. 

Fox received little gratitude in his line of life and never with such fulsome sincerity. When Llewert could not beg Fox to accept anything for himself, he changed vector. With the acumen of a salesman but the grace of a gentleman, he asked if Fox might like something for a friend, or perhaps, a sweetheart? 

This had gotten Llewert a little further along. But his solicitousness met fresh difficulties when Fox shied away from his PERSEC-probing questions; nor could Fox describe his ideal commission because he’d honestly never thought about it. Llewert’s fancy pen had dribbled much onto his notepad before Fox swallowed his mortification and suggested a fox ... or anything like a fox, really ... unless Steward Naves thought that too on the nose? 

Llewert had lit up at the idea. He considered it extremely fitting, and what’s more, _unique._ There was altogether too much gilt plate and too many encrusted inkstands in the galaxy. And he had just the material in mind. 

And here the little fox was, many weeks in the making. Fox beamed. The perfect house-warming present to remind Riyo of her home: the salty plains of Pantora, where marsh vulptices roamed.

And, hopefully, of him. 

The only lasting token of his admiration he’d been able to give her — Fox hoped his kisses felt real enough — was an old spaulder: scored from a criminal’s shot that should’ve taken his shoulder, and scored with her name on the underside. A bit macabre, maybe, but not without significance. She had to secret it away, like their liaison. This was a touch more subtle. 

“The zoo has a breeding pair of Craitian vulptices,” explained Llewert. “Nuyn spent an afternoon studying them and was touched by their affection for each other. She said it was very inspiring.” 

“I don’t know how to thank you — or Nuyn,” Fox said. 

Llewert waved this away like a bad smell. “The Chancery thanks _you._ I only wish we’d troubled you sooner, rather than rely on some multi-agency posse.” 

Fox shrugged. It really had been the work of an afternoon. Hadn’t required an encounter at all, nothing like a sting. Just a strong word. It had actually been a pleasure to put the fear of Fett into someone for a good cause, reminding them — hands on his holsters — that Fox had very broad powers of search and seizure. And that there were some things no cushy career could bounce back from. Like a fall from the back of a swoop bike.

“Well, unlike the CSF, our fist doesn’t shrivel feebly at the docks,” said Fox. “Have the escort speeders been arriving on time?” The Senate Guard were supposed to transport materiel from the docks to the workshop, and from the workshop to the office. Another footnote in their arcane jurisdiction. But they often forgot, even when Llewert was prepared to go to docks himself. Fox and Llewert had arranged their own system. 

“Yes, yes, they’ve been extremely regular, thank you. I could set my chrono to them.” 

“Good.” Sergeant Hob would be getting a healthy cut of Senator Chuchi’s regifted goodies. 

Fox replaced the crystal and noticed another small something tucked into the front of the box. He fished it out: a weighty pen. Not a stylus, but the genuine, inky article. _For Services Rendered to the Republic Chancery_ had been finely inscribed in two lines along the length. Fox glanced at the steward, quizzically. 

“It’s no Star of Coruscant,” Llewert began. “Just a trifle. But since you took such an interest in mine last time ... and I believe you mentioned your good lady was fond of fine script? There is no occasion when a handwritten note is not appropriate. Which reminds me —” he opened the drawer again and fetched a slip of embossed paper: a note of authenticity, signed by Steward Naves and wax-stamped with the Chancery crest, confirming Commander Fox of the Coruscant Guard as the owner of this valuable. “The box should survive anything the course of your day may throw at you. But this should save you from the curiosity of even the most impudent aides or brass-necked Blues,” Llewert said, winking.

There seemed no end to Llewert’s thoughtfulness. Fox considered himself in great danger of making a friend of a natborn — and one of the barnacles of bureaucracy, no less. He gathered his helmet and his new possessions carefully and stood. “Thank you, Llewert,” he said, extending his hand over the desk. 

The steward shook it with great warmth. “My pleasure, Commander. You’re welcome anytime. I’d love to hear how she finds the gift.”

Fox hoped she might find herself feeling as frisky as the zoo’s vulptices. He smothered that thought and his blush with his helmet. 

He offered Llewert some polite parting words, mentioned he’d drop by again to introduce his fellow officers. Llewert loved an audience. Fox could just picture bringing Stone here on some pointless assignment, to fetch a trinket for a senator, perhaps — hadn’t Stone gotten the memo about the new Diplomatic Delivery Service? — just to see the bastard sit in a velvet chair and drink insipid tea. Stone would probably grouse that the tea lacked sugar and that all this history was boring his anus off. Then he’d bug Fox to send Thire and Thorn, just to make things even. 

The Dome’s corridors were blessedly empty. This year's recess had just begun. Senators with expiring terms were generally expected to return to their sectors to schmooze or campaign, depending on their sectors’ practices. Mostly they just went on holiday, along with all the incumbent senators, diplomats, aides, interns, administrators, and hangers-on that populated this grand, governmental mushroom and the district beyond. 

Many tedious hours stretched before Fox. 

It was the curse of a tightly-run ship. And despite the insane reporting lines that often strangled the entirety of strategic command, from the Home Defense fleet to the battalions flung out in the ass-end of nowhere, Fox prided himself that the Republic Guard operated as efficiently as it superhumanly could. A pride founded on no small amount of midnight caf, endless meetings to unstep toes, and an HUD system that saw more data every day than most servers saw in a week. 

Furthermore, there were no line units on leave to police; they were all parading in key systems or trying to win them back. No one was due to rotate in for weeks. Fox would spend all day on-call, ready to stop any criminal activity or investigate any incident within CG jurisdiction — military personnel and installations — or any other jurisdiction, if CSF or the Blueys couldn’t get there first. Terrorist activity was fair game for all, though, and as the Blueys had proven their inability to protect the Federal District’s HVTs, Fox had adopted this territory as his special remit. 

That it allowed him more opportunities to bump into Senator Chuchi was a bonus. 

Annoyingly, Fox had also done most of his deskwork at the front end of his twelve-hour day, before the Chancery had opened. 

He’d signed off the duty rostering of Guard and MP officers, and Thorn’s list of shocktroopers to be loaned out to CSF for specific taskings, frowning at the high proportion requested for the Desrini District. 

He’d met with Adjutant-General Tiaan, his immediate superior, to review the day’s upcoming tribunals and courts martial — all clones, since they didn’t require juries — before she left Fox with the datawork to join the STRATCOM meeting with all the top squares. 

He unfucked a couple SOPs that came down the pipe from HomeSec. 

He’d reviewed the latest actions involving penal troops, forwarding notable mentions in dispatches to relevant commanders, because it promoted good interservice relations — read: it made them feel good and cost nothing. 

He’d read Captain Loture’s weekly briefing packet for the Senate Guard and compiled one for the RG — expected DVs (bound for the Senate or the brig), any possibly inflammatory sessions (none this week), changes to designated off-limits areas and establishments (the list grew with every angry comm from Rugeyan’s office), strongly worded reminders that this or that RCMJ article was _not_ just there to make up a character count, et cetera. 

He’d read up on the sector armies’ movements, committing the dispersal to memory.

And lastly, he’d had his daily call with Reaper over in CLONINT, where they discussed any security threats CSF and the Council had pinged through overnight and decided how to cut the pie — ideally without Jedi involvement. 

So now Fox had to run the more active end of his shift with this precious box on his person or risk leaving it one of his many boltholes. 

He killed a few minutes by walking to a particular quadrant a few levels up. Feeling whimsical, he took the same public lift down to the speeder lot that a beautiful pantoran had held open for him, five days into the job. Her smile had been so inclusively kind, he’d almost thanked her twice. No bright eyes greeted him this time. All the same, his stomach filled with butterflies that had nothing to do with his quick descent. 

It was a bright and comfortable morning, as generic as they came on climate-controlled Coruscant. For once, Fox didn’t wish for variety. Didn’t feel a flea of irritation at the sameness of the perfect sky, when that alone might have dared his days to be different, were he anywhere else. If anything, his sunny mood today was almost no match for it. 

Down the Executive Thoroughfare he swooped. The Guard had plasteel nests all across Galactic City, but Fox lived in the barracks stacked between the Dome and the Annex. Originally intended for the Senate Guard, in a futile attempt by the Department of Works to evict the Blueys from their coveted halls in the Dome, it formed part of the Senate Sprawl: a jumble of buildings housing all the offices and departments and commissions established after the Naboo Crisis. The holograms in the gift shop always made Fox chuckle. They showed the Senate surrounded by a sweeping plateau of open space, pocked with statuary and the odd fountain. Sure, the Avenue of the Founders was still there, with one or two new statues to make it less speciesist, but you’d have to use a _very_ narrow lens to get anything approaching a majestic view. 

Fox entered the barracks to crisp sound of attention being rendered. “Nice job clearing the carcass,” he said to the stiff troopers behind the front desk. General area beautification was one of their responsibilities; but a diseased hive rat in a Thoroughfare gutter that their CO deemed close enough to be _their_ problem was a shitty way to start a shift. 

“Sir,” they clipped in unison. 

He left them standing even straighter under the praise. There but for the cold grace of a longneck lab tech went Fox. 

Stuffing the pen into his kama pocket, Fox locked the box in his locker in his secure shoebox of a room. At least he had a room. It somewhat muffled the permacrete-mixer symphony that was the barracks; and he could jerk off in a peaceful, orderly fashion, spunk towel draped _just_ so. Cot and private fresher aside, it served as little more than glorified datapad and confiscated-goods storage. Fox had an office, too, but for the convenience of his boss, that was cloistered deep in the bowels of Republic HQ, a good five klicks away as the hawkbat flew. _Some_ good had come from the arrangement: Fox only had to lobby for five minutes to be issued his bike — and with it, it only took five seconds to escape HQ and all the tiresome top squares who stomped around there or anywhere. 

Sinking onto his baby once again, Fox gunned it towards the Annex. He took the long way 'round to observe a changing of the north gate guard. It was important to keep everyone honest, especially against any spirit of recess creeping in. 

A few deep gouges in the squad’s polished armor caught the sunshine. Fox was inclined to think it vanity not complacency; the men cherished their urban battle scars, anything to scratch off the shiny sin of a homefront station. Fox knew the feeling. He might have allowed it to persist for a week — their cadence was perfect and their footwork could cut glass. But he already had that curtain-twitcher Tiaan just waiting for a reason to arrest greater control from him, eager to scratch off her own sin of being a glorified desk jockey. Regs were regs, and Fox had been pulled from a jar for the sole purpose of enforcing them. 

The squad’s shiny sergeant was thanked in advance for having their plates smoother than a senator’s backside by morning. “And be advised,” Fox added, “I can smell laminate filler across space-time. So I'll know. No Force. Longnecks just made me fucking special that way.” 

Fox then bounced to the northwest gate, where there was no ceremony but twice the show, because a marshal commander got to play sergeant. 

He parked his bike and approached the gate’s entrance, coming very near one of the three guardsmen stood at readiness. The nearest one slapped his rifle in acknowledgement at his approach; but when Fox quickly sidestepped in front of him, aiming to quiz him about something, music spilled from the guardsman’s helmet in lieu of his reply. 

“Commander F-f- _fuck!_ — I mean —” The idiot known to Fox’s HUD as Guardsman Wint frantically clicked his mic off and on again. “Commander Fox, _sir!_ Senator Trovya and Representative Amich of Carida ...” 

Fox couldn’t believe it. Not just the carelessness — Wint should have killed his audio at any red in his peripheral — but the _song._ Fox recognized it. A vintage hit. It’d been playing in the penthouse when he’d touched Riyo through her panties for the first time. Hina Me could recondition Fox personally, and he’d still wake up humming that tune. 

Fox might have dithered between sullying a precious memory and teaching a lesson. Except he didn’t. Fox was a goddamn commander, and listening to audio outside the line of duty was strictly prohibited. 

“No,” he barked, cutting off Wint’s stammering. Anyone could read an HUD. How this guardsman handled what came next would decide whether Fox filed a disciplinary. “I like that song. I think I’d like to hear the rest.”

“S-s-sir?”

“Chrono’s ticking.” 

More of their unpaid time crept by, before Wint obeyed this unconventional order. Fox empathized with his embarrassment: that cold bath of sweat down the spine. But he felt no sympathy whatsoever. They’d beefed up their presence around the Annex precisely because they _weren’t_ blasé Blueys who invited hostage situations with their carelessness. 

Fox loomed. Wint’s teeth clacked faintly. The song crackled from his helmet, awkward like lift music. 

Oh, yes — _this_ part: when Fox had quivered bodily to feel Riyo’s heat through his gloves. 

“From the beginning, if you please,” Fox ordered. _Kill them with kindness,_ Major Melke had always said, emphasizing with Umbaran wisdom that it was cleaner that way. 

Wint complied, readily this time. They stood chin-to-chin while the track played and, presumably, the kid slowly shat himself. It wasn’t a brief ditty, expanding and contracting in volume around a series keybed riffs and synthesizer accompaniments and the singer’s jaunty flourish of high octaves. Fett bless recess and its mostly empty gates. 

“Thank you, Guardsman Wint,” Fox said in a low, saccharine voice when song petered into silence. “ _Really_ made my day.” 

The squad’s sergeant had borne this secondhand and professional embarrassment without flinching an inch. Fox merely had to look over at him to say that it was for the sergeant to decide what happened to Guardsman Wint next. Fox wouldn’t be surprised to see his number on the next garbage tasking with the CSF. But if the kid came up for a penal transfer, Fox would probably save him. He still fucking _loved_ that song. 

And he was just hours away from seeing Riyo again. Alone. 

With a cheeky smile hidden under his helmet, Fox hummed his way to the Annex control room, a pulsing node in the Federal District’s security apparatus. He nodded at all the comms officers who didn’t have to stand up for him, and acknowledged the guardsmen who did. Then he sat down to review any tagged camera feeds and cycle through the logbook. 

Satisfied that no fires needed fighting, Fox took a minute to look up _rhodochrosite_ on his ‘pad. He wondered if Riyo would recognize the mineral — if its description as “moderately valuable” would be a slight or a compliment. Fox stopped himself before he could overthink in that direction. It didn't matter: he could offer polished plastoid and Riyo would cherish it like kilanova gold. Besides, he trusted Steward Naves wouldn’t live up to his surname. 

Major Dodger arrived minutes ahead of shift and made a beeline for Fox. “Morning, sir. Missed you at the gym.”

Fox swivelled languidly towards this PT demigod who shared Fox’s habit of sweating off sleep. Salute acknowledged, Dodger handed him a barracks-made protein shake: finely crushed ration bars, ananas, and nutmilk, because clones and lactose were a match made in gastrointestinal hell. 

“Well, Dodge, here’s the thing. I had a rendezvous with a beautiful girl. Sweeping lines, delicate vanes, faster than Senator Vyckers’ knickers hitting the floor when —”

Dodger snorted. “Don’t care what you did with your fingers, sir. You still skipped chest day.”

“You got me there.” It was the one thing about deployment that Fox still enjoyed: he didn’t have much time to call his own, but what he did have, he could do freely with. No more mandatory anything, save for everything he did to keep the RG functionally sound. Fox was luckier than most. But he tried, whenever possible, to stand in solidarity with the average redjob. And as the red boot of the Republic Code of Military Justice, he had to be uniquely intimidating to the average whitejob, too. So he put in double time on the bench and on the grav-mill. 

Fox took a long slurp of the shake; the cool mush hit a sweet spot in his empty belly. “Is my cup size in peril, do you think?” His chest was alternately the pride of the Guard and the butt of senior command jokes. He was about as fond of his pecs as he was of his elbows or his ears: not overmuch. He was a clone: plenty of pride, but little vanity to be had in the overwhelming sameness. Except when standing next to a Bluey. Then it was hard to be modest.

“‘S why I brought you the shake anyway,” answered Dodger. “Gotta keep those puppies fed.”

“You’re a credit to the corps.” 

“Just don’t ditch me tomorrow, sir. Pretty fucking please. I hate core day.” 

Like he needed any emotional support there. Dodger’s abs were finer than Fox’s rack. But Fox could make no promises, to himself or to Dodger. He’d made arrangements — read: he owed Thire a _shit ton_ — but Fox wasn’t letting himself think about it. He was at Senator Chuchi’s pleasure. She might send him away tonight, and it’d be business as usual. She might keep him with her, and then the rest of his life would happen. 

Fox finished his shake and left Dodger with the control conn. He was a quick and competent officer. Well on his way to making commander, if Fox had anything to say about it. 

Feeling antsy again, Fox did laps around the Annex, that damn fine pen weighing him down on one side. One of the first sites on his revolution was the scarred East Wing atrium. That dark, airless cave where Riyo had nearly — 

_No._ Fox caught himself. Today was not a day for reliving the nausea of that afternoon: a fear so terrible, Fox wondered later if his desperation to scramble his bike from the pursuit gunship had been less about outpacing the pack, and more about gripping his life in his own hands, so that he might swiftly end it. 

Fox shot a burst of oxygen into his helmet. He swiftly moved on.

He’d just rounded the second level when he met Captain Hound and Femur, handler and massif both sniffing at a particular door. Fox smelled it too: something dead and rotting. A locksmith droid was requested and Fox logged the breach. He recalled the false alarm created by Riyo’s fish delivery and hoped it was just another one of those. 

It wasn’t quite so benign, but at least there was no body. Just the disgusting aftermath of a politician’s pre-recess party sometime last week. To judge from the leftovers, someone had catered expecting Orn Free Taa’s entire family. They must have left without informing Facilities that they’d updated their office keycode. The cleaning droid couldn’t access the office, no one accessed the cleaning droids logs — maybe they’d just fucked off on recess, too — and, Boba’s your uncle. Another casualty of administrative confusion. At least Femur was happy. 

Between that foul incident, the shake, and his nerves, Fox had no stomach for lunch when the hour approached. Guard officers were entitled to eat in the huge Senate service canteen, where the only portraits were sad holos of employees of the month. But today’s sweet topato stew would be better left in the pot. A generalized anxiety Fox hadn’t felt since his deployment jump to Corrie had settled in, blanketing his excitement. He needed to slip it off. 

He found himself airborne again to relieve Stone of some processing work at HQ. Fox didn’t often visit the detention center. Between Thorn and Stone, the shock elements of the Guard were all perfectly ordered like a live wire. No need to stomp around and go tripping up their system just because he could. But Stone might at least take Fox’s early place at the canteen — and maybe cajole an extra ladle out of Sadhra, the buxom half-lekked twi who liked to blow sunshine up Stone’s shebs. About the only person who did, given Stone’s remit. It did nothing to combat the putridity of meeting him in a 'fresher after chow.

“You wouldn’t happen to have any paper around here?” Fox asked Stone in the handover. The valuable, high-risk Seppies held here — the Poggle the Lessers and Sib Canays of this war — were only allowed communications in person or via flimsipad. It was worth a shot. 

“Flimsi? Or paper-paper, like the monks use?”

“Paper-paper.”

Stone scoffed and scratched his chin. “Last time I saw paper, I was pulling it out of a tramp’s bra.”

Fox cocked a brow. “Didn’t take you for the type.” Stone had no airs about him, but he wasn’t a lecher, and for all his guff, his file was squeakier than his bald head. 

“No, you dingus. I was booking her. Girl had the smarts to offer me a bump of crude she had warming in her tits to let her go. Found the crude under a bazillion cigarra slips stamped with her comm code and rates. Some entrepreneur.”

_“Charming.”_

“As much as I’d love to strip-search some prostitutes for you, CSF keeps them and lunch calls.” Stone grabbed his helmet, checking his teeth in the visor. “What d’you even need it for?”

Fox hemmed. There were no secrets between the senior command; they lived in each other’s heads. But Fox still balked at talking about her — didn’t want ... their _thing_ to wither under too much scrutiny. “Wanted to write something nice for Icelily,” Fox said, sheepishly. When he _did_ talk, he only allowed himself to use Senator Chuchi’s call sign, though he knew all the bugs in the building. Thire said it sounded like a dancer’s name down at the Centerfold and Fox said that was the point, so long as Thire didn’t flap his gums and tell her. 

“Oh-ho! You _are_ one fucked schmuck, sir, d’you know that?” 

“Fuck off before I change my mind.”

Stone obliged, but not before he’d pointedly molested the doorjamb with his hips. 

When Stone returned an hour later with some napkins, Fox knew there was nothing for it but to finally avail himself of his last privilege as Rear Marshal Commander of the Republic Guard: an office supplies budget that stretched to a whole ten credits a week. Not redeemable for snacks, chewstims, or beverages, which meant Fox made a weekly trip to the Senate Supplies Store to buy bonding tape, blank datadrives, powerpacks, a copy of _Chrono,_ and a bundle of ananas, because fresh fruit didn’t meet the sugar threshold prohibited to clones, apparently. 

Occasionally it amused Fox to flood the barracks’ barter economy with a particular item — melon-scented hand sanitizer actually went for a lot now — but mostly he dispensed with these trivial perquisites at his pleasure, handing the ananas over to Dodger, keeping the _Chrono_ for himself, and tossing the bag into whichever block he fancied. 

This week, however, he’d be disrupting the supply chain by spending all ten credits on the finest pad of paper in stock. The _only_ pad of paper, embossed with Senate crest in bronzium leaf. The packaging was very dusty. The weequay cashier took a very letter-of-the-law approach to her job, and although there was certainly something wrong with the spirit of a rule that denied Fox a box of java cakes but allowed him to purchase headed Senate paper, she didn’t argue, except to demand the ten extra credits it cost. Fox popped a box and fished out the chips. The clone economy wasn’t watertight; some liquidity always leaked in.

Now supplied with paper, the remainder of Fox’s day was consumed with anxiety over the pen and the steward’s advice. He felt better, temporarily, by taking a knife to the pad and scoring off the header. A clean slate. Twice he’d sat, actually shebs in seat, in a security booth and prepared to scrawl out a line. And twice he’d been so disgusted with the splotchy hash he’d made of the _'R'_ of her name that he irritably stuffed the page into his thigh plate and walked out, circling the Annex corridors like an overworked aide on a millaflower trip. He could detail-strip and reassemble a rifle in a transport. Blindfolded. Why were his fingers failing him here?

He passed Riyo’s office. It was the last place he’d seen her, four days ago. She must have been lying in wait to catch him on his rounds — Fox never allowed himself to stop otherwise. Too obvious, too unprofessional. She’d handed him a happy equinox card and bid him a good recess; inside had been his summons, in her fine hand, which Fox dismayed of ever hoping to match. 

The box held the prize. 

Hours passed, and Fox became self-conscious about that, too. It was too much. And too little. 

He contemplated this as he walked to his final appointment of the day: his weekly wash-up with the Supreme Chancellor. It had to be the most expensive chinwag in the entire galaxy. Half an hour for the Chancellor to grease the cogs of Coruscant’s unwieldy security machine by at least making the head of the Republic Guard feel more human than his colleagues generally allowed. 

Fox scanned and swiped his way from the public halls to the the beating red heart of the Senate. The Chancellor had decreed that the RG’s unit color would be red, back when they’d first touched down; but some assistant must have mixed up the color swatches because Fox did not match the carpet. Or the drapes. Or the walls. Or the wall sconces. 

The glum reception officer, a Nabooian who'd clearly overstayed her pimply intern days, never greeted Fox. She merely motioned for him to step into the detector airlock and droned into her comm; “CC-1010 to see the Supreme Chancellor” would alert the officers in the concealed security booth that every single known alarm was about be triggered. Standard procedure, they’d told Fox on his first day. He didn’t see this ass-backwards, box-ticking charade applied to many other people with his clearance. 

Proved to be armed and theoretically very dangerous, Fox mosied out of the airlock. He stood at ease in the reception room, angling slightly towards the desk. This always unnerved and annoyed civil servants: they couldn’t see your eyes, and unlike senators, they didn’t have the authority to unplug you from essential comms by asking you to remove the bucket.

Fox scrolled through various alerts and messages, prioritising, forwarding, or deleting them them with flicks and blinks. The message marked _high importance_ was some new rule from HomeSec making tallies mandatory under fatigues or dress greys — like holding out your arm for a scan was any more demeaning than pulling out some chains around your neck. Whatever. First Fox had heard of it, but that happened all the time in the army; adjust and move on. 

He tried not to fixate on Riyo. It was difficult, even when he tried to make it easy for himself. Fox deleted any and all cam footage of her like a paranoid saint and refused to store any holos. Her official Senatorial portrait could be professionally excused, however, just one of a thousand in his helmet database. He pulled it up. 

There were dead saints and little gods and then there was Riyo Chuchi in the Pantoran Robe of State. The portrait was a breathtaking full-length, commissioned to hang in the Assembly. A gauzy veil, draped from a crescent headpiece of filigreed gold, framed her fine features. Meters of velvet in that traditional Pantoran plum she wore so well flowed at her tiny feet. Riyo said it had been awfully heavy; most of the volume had been tucked behind her, so as not to completely swallow her up. Fox could claim to have touched, even _kissed,_ the sitter; but he longed to visit the original portrait in situ, so he might see an entire hall blanched by its perfection. 

The booming voice of the Vice Chair interrupted Fox’s reverie. “The Chancellor will see you now,” Amedda said, leaving the executive office. He had a particular way of speaking that reminded everyone, from nameless aides to General Tiaan herself, that they existed at the Chancellor’s pleasure. Like Palpatine was the Force Incarnate, not some avuncular officeholder with a decent candy jar. 

“Commander Fox,” said the Chancellor, holding out a bowl of chocolate cheffa twigs in greeting. “I’m sorry for the wait.”

He was the second person that day to apologize for taking up Fox’s time. Truly, it was hard not to feel charmed. “There was no wait, sir.” Fox took a twig. The Chancellor gestured politely for him to remove his helmet. Fox had never been invited to sit down, and he preferred it this way. A little professionalism upon which to trellis his thoughts. 

“How has the Guard fared this week?” The Chancellor already knew the broad answer to his question, such were the channels of information. This was Fox’s cue to bring up any sensitive topics. To shoot the shit with the head of galactic government. Fox hadn’t made commander — though the _rear marshal_ step-up was all Palpatine — flying by the seat of his shebs. He had things on his mind beyond _Fox Chuchi is a nice civvie name,_ and _if I_ am _a schmuck, it’d be awfully nice to get fucked._

He offered up a few talking points. The ATC’s improved response times to the Guard’s skylane rerouting requests; how Fox’s latest testimony before the Senate Security Committee had been taken; his relationship with Captain Loture, since Fox had been pleased to inform her, during one such committee, that with all due respect — none whatsoever — the Chancellor wished clones to be phased into the Dome’s security, too. 

Fox had already raised the issue of the docks in a previous meeting, without mentioning Derrick or Steward Naves specifically. Fox and Llewert had agreed not to cross streams; better to let the bad smell of the CSF’s inefficiency filter in from more than one direction. And Fox hadn’t mentioned what he’d done for the Chancery, either. Tooting one’s own horn was a Bluey practice — it was why the Chancery _existed._

“But I am bothered by the number of troops in the Desrini District, sir,” he added. Some weeks ago, a refuse cannon had misfired, covering an entire district in toxic waste. Rescue Ops had dealt with the fallout, but now HomeSec was using its ration of shocktroopers to deal with the social unrest and dianoga issue. And they were demanding more. Clones were shit-fan separation specialists, but Desrini needed a fucking armored battalion with chemfantry. 

“Such a tragedy.” The Chancellor shook his head as they slowly circuited the office. “But why would the Guard be involved? Surely it’s a municipal matter, under CSF jurisdiction?”

“Strictly speaking, sir, it is. But HomeSec clearly feel _we_ should be taking out the trash.” 

“Ahh. I see. I _have_ spoken to Minister Jethra about this vile prejudice. I am sorry it keeps coming home to roost. Have you had any further difficulties with General Tiaan?”

Fox had almost filed a grievance against Tiaan for questioning his tasking orders. Except Fox didn’t even know how to file a grievance. There weren’t supposed to be any, the mere idea was laughable ... so he just told the Chancellor over a caramel: _General Tiaan doesn’t trust my men to keep their wits about them during a recess._ She was about as concerned with their efficacy as their cholesterol. But she was a fussy fuckwit whose idea of command was to wind up the chain. “No, sir,” Fox replied around the chew in his mouth. Tiaan had not mentioned it further, nor had she recanted or apologized. That would require her to change her entire personality. “Thank you for having a word.”

“I’d oversee you myself,” the Chancellor sighed, “but the demands of the office ...” He spread his hands, as if to indicate the galaxy’s worth of responsibility between them. There was something sticky about the man, to be sure. He was a career politician. But for all his executive powers, he was surely spread too thin to be anything but benign. 

“That’s very kind, sir,” said Fox. “I can manage. And the Guard _will_ do their jobs. They have to answer to someone far more frightening than General Tiaan if they don’t.” The Chancellor’s eyes twinkled with a question; Fox gave him the satisfaction of a cocky answer. “Me, sir.”

“Just so.” The Chancellor chuckled, holding out the bowl again, offering some twigs for the jump. “But it is a recess, Commander. Do be sure to enjoy yourself, if you can.” 

Fox pocketed a few, next to the stiff pen. “Thank you, sir. And the same to you.” 

And with that, Fox was free. 

He was as blithe as could be. He might’ve clicked his heels as he left the executive suite, were it not for the prospect of running into Chief Moore, one of the few people who could shrivel Fox’s spine with a glance. At least Melke had worn shades.

Fox’s glee was further tempered upon remembering the box. 

He couldn’t just whip it out for Riyo. He’d probably break it in confusion. But neither did he wish to show up empty-handed. A smokescreen was needed. 

It was Primeday, and it was approaching 1800. An idea unbecoming the most senior clone on Coruscant — Reaper and his shady remit aside — formed in Fox’s mind. 

There’d been a entry on the log for expected deliveries. It had looked like a mistake, but the mistake lay with Procurement, not with the log. Exploiting a clerical error sat fine with Fox, and he acted with decision. 

He popped into the control room one last time. He’d shifted the box here earlier, leaving it with Thire to babysit. Going to the barracks now might have meant running into responsibility. The uneventful day had worked on Fox like a spanner on a shell: he needed to fly or he might go ballistic on someone. 

“Be advised,” Fox said as he secured the box inside a sturdy backpack, “unless Grievous himself farts in the upper atmosphere, do _not_ comm me.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Thire scoffed, “you’ll face Salima and walk backwards into hell. Copy that. Fucking be gone with you, sir, before you leak all over my control room.”

Fox’s hand told his chummy subordinate where he could shove that remark. 

He swooped around to a particular loading bay. Keeping one eye on the short horizon, Fox busied himself fiddling with his bike. Surely whatever Riyo Chuchi deigned to pass onto the Guard would fit in his backpack and between his legs. But Fox emptied the small storage compartment, too, just in case her generosity overran. It often did. 

He checked the time. Then checked again to see how many seconds had passed. An airvan approached. Fox pinged its registration transponder. _Federal Flowers._ Bingo. 

The airvan thudded onto the platform and a receivables officer trundled out of his office followed by an inventory droid with a repulsor-trolley. Of the floral arrangements consigned to the besalisk’s care, there was a particularly large one, centerpiece-sized. Fox eyed it with interest. The officer signed for them all and trundled back into his office. 

Fox clicked onto patrol comms. “Arnott, spot-sweep of receivables bay 23, if you please.”

A squad arrived promptly, thirty seconds under SOP. They saw Fox leaning against his bike and got to work, unpacking their kit, shooing away the officers, and starting on the far corners with the massif. Fox ambled into the office. 

Annex deliveries were scanned on a belt for toxins, explosives, metals, and lifeforms before being set aside in a back room, ready for collection. Things not collected by aides within 24 hours were destroyed. Fox examined the plasti-wrapped bouquets and their stratospheric price tags. Of course, the largest one belonged to the biggest ego. 

According to his senatorial briefing packet, Senator Zulick didn’t have much of a sector left. Either she cavorted like tomorrow would be her last day before recall, or she really believed no amount battle droids in her sector could dislodge her from her pampered life in the Core. Fox’s hierarchy of senatorial favorites was already bottom-heavy, but Zulick had sunk straight below them all when she’d snaked some flimsi down his thigh plate. A coarse missive written in an even coarser hand. When she saw him next, she’d tugged on his kama and asked if he’d drop it for a untraceable credit chip. An insult to his station, his personhood aside. It was all Fox could do to avoid her. There could be no writing her up; the Blueys had a committee for that sort of thing, but clones were supposed to lie back and think of the Republic or some such kark. 

This had gone down like a cup of cold sick with the Honorable Riyo Chuchi, who’d called her a vulgar word. 

Zulick was miserably miserly. But even _she_ couldn’t miss her weekly delivery of hothouse flowers during a recess. She was being escorted to Scarif at that very moment. No one had bothered to tell the florist. Her delivery would be in a garbage chute tomorrow, or taken home to the besalisk’s missus. 

Fox hadn’t been able to bring flowers to Riyo’s med-bed after the hostage crisis. A matter of creds and propriety that nevertheless shamed him still, almost as much as the maudlin tears he'd been too exhausted to restrain. He'd more than make up for it, now. 

There were no cams in here. The receivables officers had fucked off for caf and smokes and still hadn’t returned when the squad finished their sweep. In this narrow window of opportunity, Fox raised Thire on the senior command frequency. If he knew his lieutenant well, he’d be talking up one of the cam operators. “Thire, your baby’s northwest cams — blink out for a beat,” he said, scooping up Zulick’s arrangement.

There came a staticky quiet that meant Thire had copied and was scoping out his CO’s dubious intent. He would work out the clumsy hand needed on her keypad to temporarily bring up a different screen. Everyone had their tricks. Fox had to know them to spot them. Only on the rarest of occasions did he deploy them himself. 

_“Whatever you’re up to, sir, you continue to owe me,”_ Thire said. 

“First dibs on the contraband, cadet’s honor.” 

_“That’s on record.”_

Fox waited in the office door. Thire’s cough told him to unass promptly and Fox did, hopping onto his bike and swooping up into the ruddy sigh of sunset.

Thire crackled and crooned into his helmet. _“Say hi to Icelily for me.”_


	2. Allegretto

It was always someone’s rush hour in Galactic City. The weft and weave of traffic in the skylanes, and the thousands of vehicles cutting across it with and without licence, formed a dense blanket. Usually, it was a thrill to slice through at speed. But this evening Fox was cradling a bouquet with one hand and steering with the other. It slowed him down. He couldn’t get the right gees to pull away his stress without pulling away the delicate petals, too. 

And wouldn’t that just be of a piece: to arrive at Senator Chuchi’s door with shredded flowers after shredding his nerves all day. Pathetic. Hardly the entrance to make if he wanted to sweep her up into his arms and — 

_No._ Fox eased off the throttle again. This was a _normal_ visit. 

He’d been hyping himself up as he gained height. His imagination, untethered from Corrie ground, spun flights of sensual fancy at the idea of spending the night with Riyo. 

Fox checked himself. Sure, there was a nonzero chance she might ask him to stay, just like there was a nonzero chance he might splatter into a cloudcutter before he ever got there. Odds were much higher that in a couple hours he’d be back in his bunk. 

For all his distraction, Fox savored the brief ride, haloed many meters round by high spirits. He sewed his way through the sky to find the enormous bulb-like top of Riyo’s building. Making a few desultory passes, he spiralled upwards until he came to a particular section of mirrored transparisteel on the northern side. 

He’d been to Riyo’s new residence before — her _personal_ one, without the dust of senatorial predecessors lingering in cracks and corners. Firstly to assess its security and kiss her with abandon; and then to watch Pantoran Security seal up the clandestine porte-cochére installed by the previous owner, so he and Thire could unseal it the next day. 

But he’d never come in from the back door. Balancing the bouquet across his lap, Fox pressed a button on his commpad. His hand was shaking. The covert aperture into Riyo’s domed garden began to open. Fox hovered in wait, finding it hard to tell where his tremors ended and the engine’s began. He was tuned right the fuck up. Jitters like this were unbecoming in a commander who knew of and _liked_ his reputation for being a real hard-shell. 

The way was open. Green grass and golden brickwork beckoned, like a portal into a fairy tale. Fox’s childhood texts had all been instructional ( _at what initial speed must Cadet 9091 in Fig. 5-31 throw the grenade at angle θ0 = 55º above the berm to reach the entrenched enemy if … ?_ ); there were minimal illustrations and no happily-ever-afters. But he’d been the silent heavy in enough meetings, standing off to one side where a bureaucrat’s child had been parked. They’d swipe through holos or flip through flimsi and twist displays in his direction, inviting him to look, too, hoping the droid might move — or maybe he wasn’t a droid at all?

Fox’s chest fluttered. How strange and wonderful this was! He eased inside and cut the engine, awash in the dome’s collected light. 

In the open pane of an upstairs window, a dash of blue caught his eye. His heart rose. Senator Riyo Chuchi, who had many nobler Pantoran titles besides, had been waiting for _him._ Fox hoped he hadn’t kept the most honorable lady waiting long. 

As he removed his bucket, whimsy gave way to a feeling of absurdity. Here he was, in day-damp blacks and clunky armor, to answer an invitation from an aristocrat. His plates were eternally clean; the grime had to be polished away for the benefit of the senators’ robes and sensibilities. But army-issued plastoid they remained. 

Fox took a deep breath; he’d warred with himself about this already, as he'd stood in front of his locker. What in clonedom did one put on to go to Senator Chuchi’s house? For a social call? Dress greys would have looked absurd, fatigues would have been an insult to everyone involved. In the end, there’d been some relief knowing he didn’t have a choice, even if he’d had the time.

He _was_ proud of his armor. Hells, he’d just agreed to have a governmental gemcutter craft something in tribute to it. But the backpack belonged on a cadet. Or some goofy tech. And Fox shifted underneath it, feeling foolish to come laden for gifts, with gifts, even if that’s what she’d invited him for. 

The palatial door opened and Riyo bounced out in very un-senatorial fashion. Her favorite poncho fluttered over a cream jumpsuit and her hair was unadorned and pulled simply into a length behind her head. 

“Did it work?” she asked, skipping over to examine his commpad. She was upon Fox much sooner than he’d anticipated; he might still be shaking. If she felt this tempest of nerves among her rosebushes, she didn’t show it. And she was much more interested in the commpad than the bouquet, which Fox supposed was politeness and good breeding.

He answered her curiosity by pressing the button again, twice in quick succession. The pane slid shut to secret them in the garden. The result of a little nonreg tampering with his armor, inserting the chip from the keyfob she’d given him into his forearm plate. It was discreet and would do nothing unless he was right alongside her house. 

“I’ve mastered much more advanced systems,” Fox said. The cloudcutter penthouse, for one, which he and Thire had secured against prying eyes, vagrants, and, gods willing, ARC troopers. “But few as much to my liking,” he added with a grin. 

Riyo smiled, still holding his forearm. She used it to tug Fox down, far down, to meet her barefooted height, and welcomed him with a kiss. Chaste as it was, Fox’s entire face tingled. How novel to kiss her where sunlight could see! 

“Oh dear,” Riyo said, pulling back. 

Fox searched her face, looking for a sign of his sin. 

She tilted her head at his bike. “You didn’t bring a speeder.” 

Fox bit down on his dismay. It was just an observation; she wasn’t passing judgement. “No.”

“I suppose it would hardly fit.”

“No ...” he agreed, waiting for her to expound.

“You may have to make multiple trips. Or make a start on the goods yourself.” 

Not wishing to draw attention to the backpack — it was not the moment, and he wasn’t sure it would ever be — Fox let himself be schooled in this lack of foresight. “I cleared out the hold. And I _am_ hungry,” he said, wanting very much to kiss her again. A more appropriate thought overtook him. He brought the blooming face of the bouquet up between them. “For you.”

“They’re beautiful!” Riyo bundled the arrangement into her arms. It was broader than she was. “How did you manage it?”

Honestly, the truth would amuse her. Fox smirked. “Light-fingered and one-handed.”

“ _Fox!_ I couldn’t possibly —” 

“They’re Zulick’s.”

“Oh.” Riyo’s lips twisted hard against a smile. “Oh, well in that case ...” Her dignity was only half-natural. The rest was an act. Beneath her grace and measured looks was another face: full of impishness, faceted like the gems in the Chancery, catching the light of laughter wherever she could find it. She breathed into the blossoms. “Thank you. But you shouldn’t have.” 

Looking down at Riyo, her perfect face framed by lilies, Fox was happy to disagree. 

“Come! Come inside!” she exclaimed. “It looks very different since your last visit.” Riyo took his hand and led him towards the deeper privacy of her home. Where no CSF droids or drunk, forgetful guardsman could threaten their peace. 

“I’ll just put these in a vase upstairs,” she said, leaving him a broad salon, the ceiling low but finely vaulted like all the rooms in her house. 

Every surface was a riot of intricate color, as Fox remembered; but now the surfaces had multiplied with the addition of furniture, freshly delivered. Some of it was still in plastic. The light from the garden warmed the honey-colored walls and ceiling. It was like standing inside a warm cake. A cake that smelled of fresh paint and fabric deodorants. 

A clutch of ceremonial spears stood in one corner, apparently awaiting mounting. Riyo had displayed them triumphantly in the Embassy. Fox's feelings were more mixed. On the one hand, he was fiercely proud of her and the diplomacy by which she'd earned them; on the other, they were nearly twice as tall as she and at one point Talz warriors had _seriously_ wanted to skewer her with one. 

Parked there with his backpack, Fox felt like a tourist, even more than he had at the Chancery this morning. Here, _everything_ was an ornament; nothing was behind glass. He might reach out and touch and render this illusion real. Or break it. 

Riyo returned. “Let me take that for you, Fox,” she said, reaching up for his backpack. She would wait on him like a servant. Absolutely not. 

“No —” Sometimes, he still had to hold back the _ma’am_ with great effort. “No, don’t trouble yourself. It’s fine.” Feeling he'd bungled that, Fox changed the subject by gesturing at the herd of fauteuils, chaises, sideboards, pedestals, lamps, urns, and other interior confectionery. “You’ve been busy.”

“Not me — the decorators. I’m afraid I rather get in the way. They were here all day, painting, fitting curtains, and other fiddly tasks. I’m sorry about the glue smell.”

Fox sniffed the air. “What is it?” 

“Adhesive for the gold leaf. To fix the crests, you know.” 

“Ah, yes.” In some respects, this residence would be hardly less functional than the embassy. She’d still have to admit personages like the Chairman, who’d take offense if the armorial bearings baked into every corner of the house weren’t updated to reflect Riyo’s Pantoran titles. But she’d promised Fox the upper floor was strictly private. Just for them. 

She seemed almost apologetic about how terribly out of fashion the place was by modern Coruscanti tastes. Fox knew his architecture almost as well as he knew his urban engineering — elementary Corrie Guard curriculum given their op environment — but he hardly cared. He was just chuffed to be there. Whatever made her happy. And if that was a colorful warren of upside-down jelly molds with stained-glass windows because she thought them romantic, all to the good.

“I won’t have it renovated, and the decorators won’t disturb its honor with contemporary furniture. Sourcing appropriate pieces is taking some time,” Riyo explained as they walked further into the house.

“Really,” said Fox, looking back towards all the stuff piled in that salon. 

“That’s the lot of it, so far. The ground floors were buffed today, so nothing's in its proper place. The carpets arrive tomorrow.”

Fox dropped back. He lifted a boot to check how much grime he might have tracked inside. “Should I … ?” He’d have to remove his greaves to get at the boots, and at that point he might as well walk around in his skivvies, he’d look so ridiculous.

Riyo shook her head and pulled him along. “Don’t be silly.” 

The kitchen was the most rustic room in the house, thanks only to the lack of gilding. Mock-earthenware walls arched into a squat dome; one side boasted a large stove beneath a grand tiled hearth. A tall, narrow window brought natural light in from the garden, and on the wall opposite were fitted a retro conservator, a nanowave, and a series of sinks. Not a place that was intended for the Lady of Wroona, for whom the house had been built, to spend much time in. Or, indeed, even see. Riyo Chuchi had no qualms — and, for the sake of their privacy, no servants either. 

A large table dominated the square room, and it was itself oppressed with hampers, boxes, jars, and foodstuffs of all description. Some had been sloughed off into the corner near the window. “Whoa ... you weren’t kidding,” Fox observed, his stomach growling. He could eat enough for a clone metabolism twice over and still have to make more than one trip. And probably more than one trip to the 'fresher. 

“The conservator is full, too,” said Riyo. 

“Is this ... normal?” 

“I do wonder if they think Coruscant shuts down in a recess and wished me not to starve.” Riyo was tiny; even if she did want to live entirely on a diet of packaged and preserved food, half would spoil before she'd get to it.

“No mushrooms, I hope?” Fox asked. Snobby aristocrats and disaffected senators liked to make political statements with their dinner party menus. Fox had learned of this and much more in the wake of the assassination attempt that had fixed Riyo so permanently in his regard. And him in hers. 

“Senator Roma sent a jar of pâté, but she’s a harmless gourmand. I had some for lunch, actually.” Riyo set about making a small space on the table. “I’ve put aside some particular favorites and biohazards, but the rest is yours.”

Speaking of biohazards. “Has any of this been tested?” he asked. 

“Tested for what?”

Fox’s pulse spiked and he finally shimmied the backpack off. “Toxins.” 

“I don’t think—” Riyo scrunched up her pretty face and tried to unscrunch it just as quickly. Diplomatically. “Will you want to test everything?"

Of course he did. There were times — too many with each new reckoning — that he could not simply plant himself between her and danger. The nefarious would prey on her decency and trusting nature. But Fox also didn't want to spoil her evening and cast a pall over her generosity with fussing. He understood compromise. “I’ll test what you open. And leave strips for the rest.” He laid a handful on the table, wretchedly conscious that he was always a big red and white reminder of her own mortality. 

“Of course,” she said kindly, like it couldn’t be helped. 

Fox found a tin that featured aquatic artwork and held it up in mock question to lighten her spirits. The smell of Pantoran fish was still fresh in his nostrils, as if it had never left. He’d had to replace his helmet filters. 

Blessedly, Riyo laughed. “That’s safe! At least, I think they are. They’re marchpane fish, not fermented. You’d like them.” 

Fox placed his helmet and backpack against the wall. Upon turning around, his brain went into orbit somewhere above his head. 

Riyo had shucked her poncho; a generous bit of fabric was missing from the middle of her jumpsuit. 

Of course Senator Chuchi had a stomach, but to _see_ it was altogether another thing. Fox understood why, in contravention of Coruscanti high fashion, she kept it covered. How could any ordinary woman take pride in her own figure, when there was Riyo Chuchi’s midriff in the galaxy? A diamond of flawless flesh, below perfect ribs and above perfect hips and silhouetted by a perfect waist. Fox wanted to flatten his face into the pool of cool skin. He even loved her natborn navel that buttoned in much deeper than his. 

Finally remembering to breathe, Fox grabbed a chair. He collapsed into it, loudly. 

Riyo stood at the open conservator, puzzling over a choice of bottles. “Are you quite comfortable in that?” she asked, waving one at him.

Fox hadn’t given further thought to his armor. He wasn’t sure how long he was meant to be here and didn’t wish to look presumptuous. “I ... I could ... I guess ...” he babbled, looking down at himself.

“Unless you need to leave soon?”

“No!” Fox heard himself squeak. “I don’t have anywhere to be. Not till tomorrow.” Fuck his life, he really _did_ tack that on, didn’t he? 

Riyo bit her lip. Then she said it: “Would you like to stay?”

Fox felt every inch a wet droid. Like she’d just flicked a series of switches that turned everything on, except his power of speech. He nodded a few times before the word shook out. “Yes.” 

“Oh!” She set the bottles down and hopped over to stand between his legs, poking inquisitively at his shoulder straps. “Then let’s take this off, at least.” 

Riyo’s naked tummy was before him, her cream-swaddled breasts level with his eyes. Fox _was_ starving and she looked perfect enough to eat. Remembering that she wouldn’t know what to do, Fox unfroze himself from the chair. As delicately as he’d hold a stylus, he guided her wrists to the fronts of the straps, fingering her fingers to the right spots. 

“Press and pull,” he instructed, dry-mouthed. Surely she could hear his heart hammering between his plates. He’d _never_ get used to being so close to her. Every time felt like free-falling into the sky. Impossible that he'd first seen Riyo in a turbolift and had been able to squeeze his awe in alongside. 

She smiled triumphantly when the straps popped from the plastoid. The amusement lingered in her cheeks for some time as she placed his cuirass down next to his backpack.

“What are you grinning about?” he said, handing her his heavier backplate. 

“I’m just ... I wasn’t sure you’d want to stay. It smells here and you’re very important.”

Fox loved her for being able to fall into doubt and admit it. He loved her even more for thinking so highly of him, when he’d turn around and tell the Chancellor to go to hell at her pleasure. He needed her to touch him, so the gilt might rub off in her hands. So she’d get the disappointment over with. 

When she came close enough again, Fox wrapped an arm around her waist. He shuffled her in front of him. “I’d stay _even_ if you opened the fish.” 

“There’s no danger of that.” Riyo trailed her hand down his cheek. “You’d have to wear your helmet. And I’d be a fool to keep your handsome face hidden when I’ve got you to myself.” 

Fox melted. Every discernible part of him ... except his cock, which was starting to make itself known against his unforgiving armor. “I’m all yours. Unless Thire calls, and he knows not to. He says hi, by the way.” 

“That’s not very _opsec_ of you,” she teased.

“Yes it is. I may die here. He needs to know where to find my body.”

“Are you in danger?” 

Fox smiled stupidly. “I fear for my heart.” 

“Young, strapping soldier like you? Nonsense.” Riyo laid a hand on his pounding left breast, grinning herself. “You must have the heart of a bantha.” 

“Maybe. But you’ve taken my armor. It’s defenseless.” 

Riyo pecked him on the nose. “I’ll take good care of it. Choruk can stand down.” 

She was canny, indeed. Fox’s personal detail of hand-picked staff sergeants and guardsmen knew he was here, too. Choruk Squad had proven themselves in the assassination attempt, and had been justly rewarded with sweets, promotions, and even more escort details. Their tasking after Riyo’s blockade intervention adventure — impulsive, madcap, _what_ was she thinking?! — had seen one of Fox’s rare come-to-Melke moments, which they always bore with good humor. _You don't look at her. You don't think about her. You say ‘yes, Senator Chuchi’ and ‘no, Senator Chuchi’, and the next minute, you forget she exists. But if she comes to any harm, it'll be your shebs on the line. Got it?_

“They’ll be grateful to you, ma’am,” he said, playing into the bashful shiny he never got to be. 

Riyo smiled, perhaps blushing a little as she removed one of his spaulders. 

They made short work of his arm plates. Though Fox's sense of duty demanded he retain the left gauntlet, tethering him to his comm and any Corrie-shattering crises on the other end.

He directed Riyo how to remove his plackart at the back. It left him sitting in halfsies, a state of undress not even permitted in the barracks. Fox felt a little roguish. And it did not escape him that she kept looking well below his eyes, where his blacks hugged his chest. 

She’d seen him in less — a week after the hostage crisis, when she’d begged a ride to the penthouse to forget the smell of medcenter. With his blacks rolled down to the hips, she’d massaged his back; but Fox had looked less than stellar after the slugthrower to the shoulder. He’d evened himself out now, and done much better. Thank Fett for empty benches, protein shakes, and Dodger’s trash talk that worked just as well on a marshal commander as it did on maggoty shinies. 

“There,” said Riyo, twining her hands like she meant to contain them. “Now, hummush plate or pie?” 

Once she’d made two healthy platters of chopped veg and paste and poured two glasses of wine, she situated herself on the table in front of where Fox sat. He scooted the chair forward to show her how to use a test strip, and so that her tiny ankles might dangle between this thighs — or, if she desired, make footrests out of them.

In this unorthodox situation, they fell into familiar subjects. 

Traffic in the Federal District, much eased during a recess, and how neither of them quite understood how traffic on the rest of Coruscant moved, though mysteriously it did progress. 

Riyo’s efforts to secure time for the Constituencies Committee to meet — and if the subpoena for clones to testify was opposed by the RAJ, did Fox know how Riyo might contact one of the brevetted Mandalorian sergeants in SpecOps? 

Proposals to integrate the 15th and 18th armies, put forward after Eriadu claimed serious fears for its lommite supply lines (probably with Gideon Tarkin’s blaster at their back). 

The merits of the Hydian versus the Corellian as the safer hyperlane to Pantora, and whether the Papanoidas’ decision to use the latter was wise.

Upon this family, Riyo vented unusual spleen. 

Chairman Papanoida’s humourless son Ion had been making eyes at her. She had been at pains to steer him off. But avoiding him this weekend, at an intimate embassy dinner before they decamped to Pantora, had been impossible.

“His sisters, those ungrateful cats, conspired to leave me alone with him. Actually, _conspire_ is giving them far too much credit — they couldn’t have been more obvious about it if they’d dimmed the lights on their way out. I’ve _hardly_ spoken to him, but he's an economics student here on Coruscant. When his silent brooding just became too much, I asked him to tell me a little about himself — you know, in the way of a mentor.” Here, Riyo paused to swill back the rest of her wine. “And he said — I honestly cannot make this up — _I like politics._ And he left it at that! And the way he said it! So _earnest!_ Like he expected me to throw myself upon him!” Riyo cackled into her glass with a laugh that could cut ice ... and a man’s balls. “He was clearly satisfied that this gave a _very_ rounded view of his personality.” 

Fox had ground his teeth into silence during her story; he wouldn’t do himself any favors by betraying pathetic, unfounded jealousy. But he couldn’t help share in an inside joke at the fool’s expense: “What’s his Tatooine kill count this week?”

Riyo snorted. “Nine. Next week he’ll be taking credit for his sister’s shot, too.”

“A crack shot, a super sleuth, _and_ a keen politician. Impressive,” Fox snarked.

“He thinks altogether too highly of himself for taking a few holocalls from Dooku. And _that_ was only because his father didn’t exactly want it on record anywhere that _he'd_ been doing so. The Chairman comes from entertainment, you know. Positively obsessed with optics. But Ion’s career is clearly hopeless enough.” Riyo placed her glass aside. “But enough of that family. They are exhausting. I’d like to hear about your day.”

“Not much to say,” Fox said, starting on a bag of very moreish moss chips. 

And actually, when he culled all the box-related themes, there really wasn’t. He regaled her with stories of chewing out guardsmen who should have known better; and when she heard the tale of woe that was Wint — Fox left out the specific song, lest he look a little fixated — she actually set aside a box of sweet-sand cookies for his squad. Fox had just hummed a polite agreement; he didn't mention that the squad would probably scarf them down only to purposefully upchuck them back onto Wint’s cot. 

This brought them onto the topic of rank unprofessionalism. An exciting court martial of a Republic Admiral who’d been smuggling spice had been postponed until after recess. Riyo was on the jury, an archaic duty which senators were still beholden to. Here and only here did Fox appreciate Tiaan’s dictatorial meddling, for she had been pushing tirelessly for the removal of civilians from military courts. 

“I took a complaint from him today,” said Fox, once he’d finished chewing the last two chips, though he'd wanted to shovel the entire bag into his face. “He won’t accept any HoloNews materials which don’t have the details of his trial redacted. So, naturally, he gets nothing to read.” 

“That's surprising!” said Riyo, making a face. “He strikes me as a very vain individual.” 

“Oh, he is. He just hates to see his charge repeated. Stone says he’s still smarting over the fifteen grams of glitteryll they counted in the bust. Said that was just for _personal_ use and he’d never shift anything less than a fucking kilo.”

“Of course, you _aren’t_ telling me any of this.” 

“Of course not." Fox funnelled salty crumbs onto his tongue. "You read all this in Stone’s affidavit.” 

And as they tilled through a tub of spiced nuts between Riyo’s knees, looking for their particular favorites, they both agreed that the only difference between the druggies in Judiciary Central and the politicians who went round the twist in the Dome was the price of the spice they ran on. 

“And I saw the Chancellor,” Fox added. “Fuck knows what he runs on.”

“Now that’s _not_ nothing,” countered Riyo.

“Happens every week,” he shrugged, cracking koja nuts to a more polite size in his fingers. 

“As it should. But I know so many senators who would pay for that half-hour.”

Fox snorted. “I wish they would. I leave his office and see them sitting there in reception, stiff and irked that they’ve been kept waiting by a clone.” 

Riyo had a bag of fancy cheese twists in her hands, and she crushed it like an angry god. Fox didn’t want her to be upset. Not tonight, when the sun had set and the warm light of the kitchen wrapped him and her in a caramelized glow. 

“Anyway,” Fox said, thunking his cheek against her knee. “Nothing came of it. I may have saved more shocktroopers from being farmed out to the Desrini shitstorm. And I got some candy.” He reached into his kama and held out the soft pieces in meek offering. 

“Cheffa twigs! _Chocolate_ ones!” Riyo grabbed the lot. “Let’s trade.”

He watched her as she searched the table’s contents. Fox’s face, when he chose to consider it, had been formed exactly to a set of code; he was just another stamp off the line. Hers looked sculpted by a careful hand. He would dare any artist — Nuyn herself! — to craft a finer Riyo, certain they could not. 

Riyo didn’t pay him or his tender thoughts much mind, running a hand through his hair until she found the jar she’d been looking for. “Have you ever had haselnutta?"

Fox shook his head and held out a strip.

She didn't take it. “This is from my mother.” She twisted the lid open. “I believe she wishes me well — though she'd scold me soundly for doing this.” Riyo dunked her finger in, collected some dark goo, and popped it in her mouth. 

Fox knew the warmth of that mouth. Remembered how she’d sucked the professionalism right off his fingers in her office after the post-Zillo gala. Haselnutta didn’t stand a chance. She scooped out another huge glob and held it out for him. 

It was beyond tasty. Rich and thick and chocolatey, clinging to the roof of his mouth like glue. He tried to swallow the sauce down. Riyo laughed at his effort, her perfect teeth stained brown in the gaps, and Fox thought he’d like to clean them with his tongue.

He felt drunk, but it wasn’t the thin wine. It was something bubbling inside him, a tipsy bowl of adoration that threatened to spill. Riyo had given him so much — from the moment she’d held out her hand to defy a lift’s doors and a Bluey’s contempt, to the moment she held out that same hand to let Fox suck nutty ambrosia from her skin. 

Fox wanted to repay her for everything, knowing he never could. But he needed to make a start before he was run away with his feelings. Before it looked any more like a declaration of love than it already was. Her nobility would oblige her to accept; he felt like the galaxy’s biggest scrub for waiting till after she’d invited him to stay. “There’s something ... I have something else for you,” Fox said quietly, as if to evade her notice. 

Riyo cocked her head. “What?”

“In the backpack.” 

“For me?”

Fox nodded, ribs tightening. He actually thought he might cry, such was the anticipation. 

Thankfully, Riyo didn’t tease him about his shyness. Curiosity took over and she scooted from the table. Fox couldn’t watch. The prickling sensation of Melke rummaging through his stuff settled into his neck — except this time, Fox knew there was something to find. The self-consciousness sat in his gut like lead. The only gift clones were taught how to give was a swift death. He wished he'd asked Llewert the SOP for this part. 

At least the Senate crest embossed on the lid would save her some embarrassment: they didn’t sell marriage bands in the gift shop. 

Riyo returned, hopping onto the table between his legs, box in hand. The note was still the backpack. She had not found it. So much the better. His pathetic scribbles would detract from the gift’s craftsmanship. 

She grinned mightily as she held the box out to him. “My fingers are dirty. I daren’t.”

“Here —” Fox sucked down two sticky fingers on her free hand in one last effort to distract her. She made a _very_ nice sound, but it didn’t work. 

“No, please. You do it,” Riyo insisted, stuffing the box into his hands and clasping hers together in her lap with something like self-will. But no anxiety — her smile was much too cheeky. 

Fox held the box for a moment, sure his face flushed deeper than his armor. Then he opened the lid and spread the silk, feeling the lack of a baize display table. He held it up. Riyo rubbed his senses shiny, but he was no coward. Fox watched her closely. He'd take her verdict on the chin. 

She gasped. An irrefutable smile broke across her face and her eyes grew large, underlined twice in gold. 

Fett bless that steward. May his breakfast biscuits be forever warm. Fox had a notion to personally present him before the Chancellor, free of charge. 

Careful to use her dry fingers, Riyo delicately removed the crystal vulptex. She stood him on her palm and held him up to the light. Her smile was holding strong. “This couldn’t be more perfect if it were made for me.” 

“It was!” Fox hasted to say, lest she think it was also dubiously obtained. “Someone at the Chancery — a friend kindly had it made. He didn’t know it was for _you,_ exactly ... just someone very dear to me.” 

She folded the crystal into her hands and looked at Fox. _“Very dear.”_ She repeated the words, deliberately, as if trying to decide how she felt about them. “Dear like a friend?”

“Dear like a sweetheart.” Fox liked the way that word sounded in relation to Riyo. The two nestled together warmly in his mind. 

“But not a lover.” 

Fox’s heart skipped. He swallowed, hoping to drench his butterflies. “That would have been bluster. Strictly speaking, I don’t I think I have a lover.” He began to stroke her calves, since she’d upped the ante. Talking his way out of this flimsi bag was _not_ the point. 

“Hmm ...” Riyo doubled over, bringing her lips so very close. “Would you like one?”

Fox came forward in his seat to bring them closer still. “Yes. I have someone very dear in mind.” 

“Oh?” she asked, between kisses. “How will they know?” 

And Fox let himself do what he, older than his years, did not often do — except for today, apparently. Fall into fancy and speak in riddles. “A fox will appear in her palm.”

Riyo offered her balled hands to his lips. Fox kissed them. Her fingers fanned open before his nose, and the crystal they revealed was almost as brilliant as her smile. 

“Would you look at that,” he breathed, enchanted. 

Cupping her hands around the token once more, Riyo squeezed it to her bosom. “ _Please_ take me upstairs.”


	3. Adagio

“This is still not a sound defensive barrier,” Fox said, when they reached the filigree double-gate at the top of the stairs. “It's a delusional wall decoration.”

“What would you recommend?” Riyo asked, snug against his back. "The decorators weren't taken with the idea of ray shields."

He flicked one flimsy side open and carried her through. “Lanthanide. Especially when it's sandwiched between durasteel.” 

“I’ll be sure to inform them. Left here,” she offered. Fox had hesitated in the hallway. He knew the layout, but not her intentions. Left he turned. Towards her bedroom. 

Though the pastel green room overlooked the garden and caught sunshine in the day, the paned windows now glowed cool with artificial light. Otherwise, it had changed little since Fox had seen it last. So little, there wasn’t even a bed. A new mattress leaned against a wall, and opposite it, across a broad expanse of bare floorboards, a delicate sideboard displayed the flowers Fox had liberated for her. He recognized, too, the stately Pantoran couple in the framed holopicture — Riyo’s parents — and the four baton-like figurines around the vase: miniatures of idols he’d seen in the embassy’s shrine. 

Riyo indicated she wished to be let down, and Fox obliged. It left his back cold; the closer she came, the more he felt the absence of her. Such was the nature of spells, he supposed. 

She took his hand and led him towards the table. “I had to set this up first,” she explained. “The Assembly entrusted the icons to me. And to spend a night with the gods under one’s roof but not arranged in harmony is to court catastrophe.” 

“What sort of catastrophe?”

“Oh, violent earthquakes and devouring sinkholes. At worst, a total blackening of the night sky, were Voldsar to escape. We’re a long way from Pantora, and I know Coruscant has all the geophysical activity of a rug, but there’s no sense angering them. I _have_ told you of Voldsar’s nightly suffering, yes?”

Fox nodded. The magnetic light-storms of Pantora were famous, and to Pantorans, mythic: the throbbing wounds of a ceaseless, celestial battle between their star, Orto, and their primary, Plutonia, struggling over their moon child; and if they went out, Pantora’s doom was surely at hand. 

“Well, there is another tradition,” Riyo began. “One grandmamas out on the tundra will tell you. They call the lights _kettuli_ — fire foxes. As vulptices run across the frost, their furry feet kick up sparks into the sky. And when the lights are especially red, they must be scurrying _very_ fast indeed, looking for mates. The best nights for making babies, apparently.” Riyo gently set the crystal fox onto the shrine. “That version was always my favorite. But _shhh_ ” — she brought a finger to her lips — “we shan’t tell Voldsar. Or the Assembly.”

Fox’s chest glowed. He had no words. 

And as he had no words, he pulled Riyo Chuchi into a kiss. 

That one time in the penthouse had seen things get a little hot and heavy — mostly because Thorn’s covert task force hadn’t yet gotten the basic utilities turned on. Fox had sweated buckets beneath his plates to have Riyo straddling his lap, sucking on his earlobe and stuffing his hand up her skirt. Swish as the place was, the air had been stale, the furniture was scrounged, and the cushions were grotty with the crud of tired, toss-me-another-beer men; it had all the romance of a club. They’d both been high on the adrenaline of a ride, which blinded one to such things. But only somewhat. 

To kiss Riyo Chuchi in her own home was very different. It deepened slowly between their mouths into a bottomless longing, a devouring of breath. She tasted of wine and spices and chocolate; and up here, no decorators’ fumes could smother the smell of her: a perfume like ripe berries and the incense of the Manarai monks. 

Riyo’s soft lips gave and gave. Fox pressed everything into them while gathering her into himself, as tightly as she could come. It was not enough. He _ached_ for her, bone-deep, and his groin grew heavy with desire. It did not incline him to subtlety. “You have a mattress, but no bed?” he panted, resting his forehead against hers, watching his thumbs circle her bare stomach. 

“I’m sleeping in one of the guest rooms.” Riyo twisted them both round, walking him backwards across the room. She’d ridden to the hounds, and certainly knew how to subtly command Fox, almost without his notice. “It’s hard to find an antique bed the right size. I may have to commission one from home. But I wanted something this large.”

“Why?”

“So you could spread out and never touch the sides.” She tipped the mattress onto the floor. When it flattened with a heavy _thwoomph!_ , Riyo spread her arms. “So, can you?” 

She couldn't be serious. But she _was._ As serious as anyone who’d splashed out on a huge mattress thicker than a bankers’ lunch and was now saucily inviting him onto it. 

Fox had never been more conscious of his armor than when he creaked down onto Riyo Chuchi’s luxury bedding. Mindful of his boots, he squirmed into the spongy middle. He reached out in all directions. Many Foxes could spoon many Riyos in such a bed. And on the diagonal, he might make it as far as her cunt without — 

“I’ve seen the planks the army calls cots,” she said.

“We wouldn’t be effective if we were spoiled.” Fox knitted his hands behind his head, comfortably, looking up her legs, already drunk on the idea of _future_ visits. “Or so the doctrine goes.”

“My lawyer’s bassa hound has a nicer bed and she’s meaner than sin.”

“How can the commander of the Guard do his duty on pendledown?” he smirked.

Riyo dropped around him. “I can think of some ways.” She kissed him some more. Her tongue imparted some of her ideas. And when she cupped his chest, fingers brushing over his nipples, Fox lit up like Corusca Circus. He arched into her hands.

“Have you ever had a bath, Fox?” she asked, easing back onto his codplate. 

At this rate, he felt he'd short-circuit in water, but that’s what he got for not changing into fresh blacks. The smell of Femur’s rotten lunchtime discovery probably clung in every crease. “I can take one,” he offered. 

“No — I mean, you might enjoy it. You’re very tense.”

No kidding. A senator, and the most beautiful of the bunch, was sitting on his groin. Fox shook his head, relieved and intrigued. “I’ve never had a bath.” Not even a bacta one, thank Fett and the aim of undisciplined thugs. 

Riyo ran her finger down the off-center zipline of his blacks, all the way to his belt, searing Fox into two, uneven pieces. “May I take this off and give you one?”

Fox was sure her sweetness would melt him down the drain. But he would deny her nothing. “Yes,” he breathed. “Yes, I’d like that.” 

They clambered to standing, and Riyo yanked at his belt and kama, wasting no time. Fox didn’t bother with a demonstration. He too wanted to be rid of his remaining plates and the gription seals that sealed him off from her. 

The person dekitting before a senator was not Fox; he was watching from somewhere distant, somewhere elevated — half-judgemental, half-proud, but all aroused. His cock was ready to make a third in the room. It bulged against his blacks, straining for Riyo’s exposed tummy. 

Adrenaline stung his armpits. It heated Fox everywhere but where he needed it: warming his brain. He fumbled with his neck seal, the point of no return, finally releasing the zip for her. 

Riyo slowly pulled it down to his hips and stepped behind him to unpeel his arms. 

Fox’s skin was too thin for him. Surely he would explode out from it, starting at his crotch.

Nakedness itself wasn’t novel. They’d been observed and poked and prodded in their decant suits more often than not on Kamino, so the longnecks might get the full, unvarnished picture of their product. By the time they were old enough to get erections, they’d adopted the armor of adolescence: amusement. Nothing was funnier than the wide-eyed disgust of a technician who’d made a perfect human and hated themselves for it. Their magnificence was in their numbers, not in their hairy, horny, oily corporeality.

But to stand exposed before someone interested in touching him back ... it was heady. Fox hadn’t known it since those first weeks of deployment, when they’d been held in orbital over Coruscant, waiting for engineers to find space to stuff them all.

 _That_ had ended badly. Riyo didn’t let him think too hard about it. She stood on her toes to kiss him again and tugged insistently at his blacks. Fox got the message. He dragged his mouth from from hers and rolled his undersuit down and off his feet —

Six hells, he was _stiff,_ bobbing like a restless cadet from his motthole.

She’d touched it before, through his greys — a hand on his thigh that had met something it wasn't expecting. It was harder to own it now, in all its ruddy, veiny glory. Fox straightened up, certain he’d earned his redjob moniker. “Sorry, I — I’m … you’re very pretty.” 

Riyo looked once. Then she averted her eyes, whispering like she might scare it. “ _Don’t_ be sorry.”

She led him down the hallway. Fox was so giddy, he didn't give a second thought to leaving his comm behind; and he might’ve tripped over the grain in the floorboards, if not for the steadiness of her hand. 

Her bathroom — it certainly didn’t merit the simple term _refresher_ — was in keeping with the rest of the house: lavish and colorful, yet quaint where it could afford to be. It was the size of Fox’s room in the barracks and fully tiled. In the center, a bathtub was partially sunk into a dais, and to its left was a large open shower recessed into the floor. Copper pipes snaked artfully along the walls. One could drown oneself easily in the sinks. 

“I would insist on the sauna, but the panelling isn’t finished,” Riyo said from the far wall. She swivelled a faucet above the tub and twisted series of copper handles. Water gushed forth. 

“What’s so great about a sauna?” Fox asked. If there was anything better than five minutes of stored-up water, blisteringly hot, he couldn’t imagine it. 

Riyo looked genuinely shocked. “I will show you! But tonight — bath.” She busied herself around Fox, who was stood like a dumb grunt, his bare flesh prickling with the anticipation of … well, _everything._ Fluffy towels were produced. Steam rose from the filling tub. A pink ball was tossed into the water, a grenade of sodas and salts that bubbled and fizzed. She rolled up her sleeves and tested the temperature. “You must tell me if it’s too hot,” Riyo said, waving him over. 

Fox stepped onto the marble platform and eased himself into the water, deep enough to reach his nipples. There was just room enough to get his knees beneath the foam. The tub wasn't made for him, but Fox was grateful it would accommodate him at all. 

“Good?” asked Riyo. 

“Yeah,” he sighed, the heat softening his spine. 

“You’re sure?”

Fox’s eyes closed under a heavy pleasure. “Mm-hmm, ’s perfect.” 

Riyo rustled behind him, somewhere beyond his halo of heat. Situational awareness: another professional casualty of this evening. She returned to press gently on his shoulders. “Wet your hair.”

Fox obeyed, sinking and slipping beneath the foam to lay in a liquid moment. He was the water and the water was him. There was a peace to it, like the warmth of the glass womb, bright and buzzing with the voices of brothers, before life and duty demanded anything of him. When he emerged, it was into the hands of the galaxy’s greatest head massage. Riyo’s sharp nails scratched him silly, and his toes curled, as if on strings. She cleaned his hair with shampoo that smelled fresher than her bouquet, triple-distilled. “You’ll need a new manicure,” he mumbled. “Bucket scalp is grody.” 

“Not as grody as mine was.” 

Fox frowned — then grimaced, embarrassed at his slowness and for stepping right into unpleasant topics. The day's cognitive load had caught up with him. “You’re doing a _much_ better job,” he said, remembering how long it had taken him to wash her hair of cranial ejecta. 

“If that’s so,” she said, kissing his ear, “I think you’ve earned it.” 

Medals were nothing. The regard of Riyo Chuchi, who suffered fools and, whatsmore, forgave them their foolishness after she’d outlasted them, would be waiting for the deserving. 

Fox closed his eyes. His life before Riyo’s house seemed so far away, like it had happened to someone else. The Annex? He didn’t know it. General Tiaan? He’d never had the misfortune to meet her. Everything stretched so pleasantly in all directions like warm taffy. Even time must have passed differently, as his brain broiled in the tiled heat, despite the open window sucking steam out into the garden. Or he’d slipped into a dream. 

Because the next thing Fox knew, Riyo Chuchi was standing naked before him.

“May I join you?” she asked.

Fox jerked at the the sight of her, bare as the blue sea. His very expensive higher functions ceased to operate. Dumbstruck, he yanked his knees up, making room. She disappeared under the suds before he could fully drink his fill. But Fox would remember those round, pinkish nipples, if he never saw them again. And that tight triangle of hair, too, which matched her hair on top. 

Riyo was such a wisp of a thing, the water hardly displaced, though she was squeezed between his knees. Fox was thankful for the liquid film; there was still _something_ between his skin and hers. The thinnest veneer of deniability where her bare ribs pressed against his calves. He would not acknowledge this new intimacy if she did not.

She’d tucked her hair up, so that nothing but the curls around her neck might get wet. Her shoulders poked out from the water; her collar bones were finer than whipcord; and somewhere below the suds were breasts that had looked perfect for his palms. Fox clung to the tub, instead. If he let go, one of three things might happen: he’d grab her, he’d grab his dick, or he’d collapse through the floor into the room below, dragged down by the dense weight of his balls. 

Riyo's brow furrowed. “This isn’t working.”

Fox had fucked up. He’d fucked up through inaction, though he didn’t know how. He swallowed. “What is it?”

“You’re still too tense.” She ran her hands up his shins, cresting over his knees. “Like a crab before the tidal feast.”

“I'm relaxed! This is amazing.” Fox sank an inch deeper, so he could rest his head against the tub and demonstrate how very zen he was. Though true peace would only come if she nicked his cock and let him slowly bleed out. Actually, there'd be nothing slow about it: his pulse alone was probably making waves. 

“Hmm. No. It’s something else” — she wiggled forward between his thighs, cleaving the foam — “there must be a manual reset around here somewhere ...”

And, wonder of wonders, Riyo Chuchi’s small hand found his cock. “Ah! Here it is!” she said, beaming.

Fox’s grip whiteknuckled. He forced himself to breathe. Her initial strokes upon him were light, led by her fingertips, as one might polish sugar glass. It was agonizing. He wanted to _thrust,_ to shatter in her hand. 

“Is this alright?” she asked. 

“ — nnngyeahhh,” he whimpered, struggling to keep still and keep his eyes open. 

How many times had he eased his grip, removing a finger or two, fluttering over his shaft, so that he might imagine it was Riyo’s hand? Fox felt his error now: he would need a chamize glove. And a thread of masochism. 

Finally, Riyo Chuchi brought the breadth of her palm to bear and _squeezed._ Fox made a noise that would embarrass him later. His orgasm was a fixed thing now, not something he'd have to chase: another minute tops and he’d spill for sure. He’d jerked off in the shower enough times to know that no amount of colorful bubbles would make it pretty. Hot water and bodily proteins didn’t mix. And he wouldn’t have Riyo bathing in his spunk. 

“You — you need to drain the water,” Fox croaked. He winced against the waste; and against the brief absence of her hand when she agreed, reaching back to twist a dial at the wall.

She rubbed him tenderly as the water retreated. It exposed his tip; then it exposed Riyo’s blue hand, incredibly small, wrapped around his shaft. Mostly. Fox might have laughed, if he weren’t so painfully turned on. She added another hand with a determined squeeze.

“ _Fuck_ — gods beyond —” Fox groaned, awestruck, watching her work. Her firm strokes spooled a knot of bliss below his cock. It was _almost_ enough. But his cockhead bobbed pink, well out of her eager, double-fisted reach. She’d need to cover it ... cover it with her mouth to suck out the string of — 

And then it was all way too much, too fast.

“Don’t let me — Riyo, I’m gonna come —” Fox heaved, before he spasmed, bodily. Come striped his chest, flinging as far as his neck. His arms flopped against his sides and his skull lolled back, all his half-fed strength thoroughly zapped. 

“That’s better,” chimed Riyo. Anaesthetized by the syrupy remains of his pleasure, Fox could barely muster shame when she ran a finger through his mess and licked it clean. “And here I was, thinking I had every delicacy known to sentience in my kitchen.” She grinned and produced a hand towel. 

Fox snapped to with effort, holding her back. “ _No._ No, not the nice towel. Let me —” He glanced around for some third-rate something to wipe himself down. 

Riyo shoved his arms aside. “I’ve made a fine mess and I will clean it up,” she declared.

His secretions were disgusting; he'd accepted this as he'd accepted Kamino’s incessant rain and the maximum effective range of a carbine. But here was an aristocrat with an acre of Bardottan flax in her hands, cleaning Fox’s skin of his base functions like she, too, loved him all the more for being real. It was the best wet dream of his accelerated life. 

Foam clung to Riyo’s legs when she stood. Fox had never seen a more perfect figure, and he lived in the capital of cosmetic conceit. How much more remarkable was she for being the beautiful child of chance! 

She repositioned the faucet. 

“You’re going to run another one?” he asked, incredulous. 

“Of course!” Riyo spun around and spread her arms with a flourish. “Welcome to Fourteen-Fourteen!”

Fox had trained himself to appreciate his ninety seconds of water. It wasn’t hard. The temperature was good and the pressure better — much better than what front-line or even fleet clones got. This tub would have two weeks’ rations, _at least._ But, truly, it was hard to grouse about how the top crust of the upper crust lived, as the water rose again and Riyo soaped and groped his chest. 

“Smoother than I expected,” she mused, almost forgetting to turn the water off again.

Fox looked down at himself and the smattering of hair on his sternum. “They engineered some of it out.” 

“You put me to shame, and I can’t say I’m mad about it.” Riyo cupped his pecs in her hands — which probably _did_ exaggerate them a little. 

Fox flushed. “I don’t think so. It’s the bike. Mostly.”

“Are you benching your bike?”

“Takes a lot of torque to balance the swoop —”

“Because it looks like you could.” 

Stars, she was going to flatter him firm again. “Well, if you’re gonna beat the shinies, you better be prepared to join them.” 

_“Beat?”_ Her face grew a little stern. 

“Drop ‘em. Make ‘em do push-ups.”

“Do you do that often?”

“Sometimes. Sometimes I’ll do it with them. Sometimes I’ll do it _for_ them. That really stings.” Fox cracked his knuckles, trying to give his hands something to do as Riyo rubbed the soap low on his belly. The pads of his fingers had wrinkled, something he hadn’t seen since the earliest basic, when they’d had to tread water for hours till they were too exhausted to climb into their pods. 

Feeling overindulged, Fox plucked the milky bar from her hand. “Let me.” He pulled her closer.

Riyo twisted against him and nestled her back to his chest. He soaped up her arms and she lifted her legs so he might cover those, too. He lathered her collar, delicately, like he might shear her skin otherwise. 

Holding Riyo like this, Fox was surprised by a surge of anger behind his eyes, until he found its source: how often and with such violence others had tried to break her. Assassins. Bane. The fucking Zillo Beast. That fanatic bully Chairman Cho. He even found outrage enough at General Skywalker, for saving her life in such a careless, oafish fashion. She had limped away with broken ribs, concussion, _and_ a fractured spine. Didn’t he appreciate how perfectly fragile she was? Fucker might’ve broken her fall, at least; he had two functioning arms, and Senator Amidala had not needed _both._

_Jedi._ All magical intuition two klicks ahead, blind as hawkbats where it mattered. 

Riyo was the softest thing Fox had ever felt. And he promised to always keep her that way. 

Setting the soap aside, he placed a hand under the shallow crease of her breast and the other on her stomach. The limits of his presumption. 

Riyo challenged him, wordlessly. She guided one hand down. Down over her patch of hair. 

Fox would forget more than most people ever learned — and he forgot nothing. But he’d forget his own ten-digit serial number to make room for the indelible memory of Riyo’s naked, wet cunt beneath his hand. 

Slowly, he traced a mental map of it. He wanted her folds carved into his fingertips. One pass would be enough for his eidetic mind. But Fox wanted to know this more intimately than he knew anything. Even more than his bike. Possibly more than his pistols. 

Feeling his way up and down, Fox found the place where his finger had almost slipped in before, blocked by her underwear. He hadn’t thought to take his glove off when she’d guided it where he never would have gone himself; later, bringing a midnight ration bar up to his mouth, he’d caught a whiff of her and had to sit down. 

Fox didn’t slide inside now, either. His restraint was rewarded by the desperate noises she made with every pass. He liked them — maybe more than was fair. 

“Has anyone ever told you you’re a colossal tease?” Riyo whined, her damp cheek plastered against his jaw.

“No. Normally they just tell me I’m a colossal dick.”

“I think, on this occasion, it’s possible for you to be both.” 

Fox chuckled. “Will it mollify you to know what I’m thinking?”

“Maybe.”

Removing his hand, Fox tucked loose strands of her hair behind her ear. He whispered into it, hardly believing the boldness of what he was about to suggest. “I would like to kiss you —”

Riyo whimpered. “I am _not_ mollified.” 

“Hold on, hold on. Let me finish.” Fox squeezed her. “I would like to kiss you here.” He touched her lips. “And here.” He caressed her neck. “And here.” He pinched her nipple. “And here.” He poked her navel. “And _here._ ” He fingered her cunt, spreading the petals of her skin. 

Her body jerked beneath his hand. “ _Oh!_ Yes!” 

Riyo splashed upwards and out of the bath, graceful as a goose, and with a plush towel and some impatience, she beckoned for Fox to follow. He did, and dried himself vigorously before he could trail any more water onto her tiled floor.

Needing to take a desperate piss, Fox absented himself into a side room. He wasn’t even surprised to find multiple options open to him: a fancy ceramic catch-all and what looked like miniature bath, with its own copper spout and fixtures and basket of little rolled towels. Fox figured that was hers, and concentrated his aim very carefully above his own bowl, feeling happily domesticated indeed. 

Remembering his six P’s, Fox grabbed the dirty hand towel and came up behind Riyo as she was repinning her hair. He kissed the damp tendrils on her nape, pleased as cheese when she turned around and jumped into his arms. There wasn’t _much_ ground to cover between her bathroom and bedroom. But the bare walls seemed to beg for Riyo’s back. Fox pressed her here and there, kissing her like a drowning man, his cock stirring again. 

“Window — the window —” Riyo said, when they finally crossed the threshold of her room. Fox set her gently down in the same recessed frame where he'd sank the first time he visited, bringing himself down to an easier height for her kisses. 

She stopped him before he could kneel at her tiny feet. “Wait! Please — use one of those,” she said, pointing to the cushions stacked into the corner of the room. Fox selected one, red and heavily embroidered. He settled it under his knees, finally appreciating the phrase _lewdly luxurious._

Riyo bit down a smile and spread her legs upon the windowsill. “Grandmama taught me how to decorate that. She’d be _very_ happy to see it used so practically.” 

Fox tried to balance himself, wobbly under the weight of expectation — and at the sight of Riyo’s open, pink cunt. He was _mostly_ sure he couldn't leave babies in there, even if he ever got the chance. “Does Grandmama believe in those fast foxes?” 

Riyo giggled without a trace of care. “Yes. She would congratulate me for netting one so sure-footed, he cuts the sky red.” 

Fox flushed with pride, and could do nothing more than press an open-mouthed kiss between her thighs, where Riyo Chuchi was warmest. 

In truth, he had no idea what he was doing. He knew what _he_ liked; and he knew what a happy girl looked like from holos. But rock up to an encounter and say, _no worries, I’ve done this in a sim,_ and the Blueys or the CSF would laugh you off the beat. The reality on the ground was always very different.

Her pale curls reminded Fox of candy floss, every street vendors’ side hustle. He’d never tried it. With Riyo under his mouth, fine and soft and satiny, he didn’t think he ever wanted to. She tasted of ... nothing. A touch salty, maybe. But to a man in love, nothing could've been sweeter than how she slowly melted onto his tongue. How she keened and scratched at his head. How her heels dug into his back. Fox savored every second of it.

“Gods, don’t stop. _Don’t stop_ ,” she moaned. Her canary eyes were clenched, her brows bunched in a way that looked promising. 

Fox ducked lower. He licked harder. The ropes of muscle in her thighs strained beneath this hands and her ass started to slip into his face. Cadence was key. Fox knew that much — as an amateur lover and a clone drilled, trained, and tested to mnemonic beats since decant. He buried his nose where the folds of her flesh peaked. Nuzzling and lapping together, he brought his entire mouth to bear upon the whole of her slick, soggy cunt for as long as she needed him. Not long at all. A wetness began to drip down his chin; still eating her, Fox spread it along his neck one-handed before it could stain her cushion. 

“That's — yes — Fox, _Fox!!”_ Riyo gasped, shaking and coming against his mouth. Breathlessly panting _his_ name. 

Fox jolted, suddenly hungrier than he had ever been before. _He_ had done this — to Riyo Chuchi! Who might have anyone the galaxy could dress in silks and call a lord. And she'd let him, just one clone of millions, drink her down. And he kept doing so, tonguing her deeply until she finally shoved his smug head away. 

Slumped and breathing hard against the window, haloed by its light, Riyo looked both undone and divine. If it didn’t mean never getting to touch her again, Fox would've framed her like that. The proudest curator, the most acquisitive collector in the galaxy, would never behold her and they did not know the magnitude of their loss.

Fox leaned his cheek against her knee, wondering what came next. Was she happy? Would there be more? He could wait, though his hands itched for his cock. It had hardened again, eager to supplant his tongue in her wet warmth. Acknowledging it would be vulgar, like picking your teeth in front of a Jedi. Only much worse: Jedi did not get attached, so there was no love to be lost. And no Jedi had ever floored Fox as much this slip of a senator. 

Riyo batted her beautiful eyes open. “You’ve sucked everything out of me,” she said, sighing deep. 

Fox felt his cheeks curl and said, despite himself, “I could ... put something back?”

“Yes, please! With interest!” 

Riyo scooted from the windowsill. She grabbed his hand and tugged him along, so that when she flung herself backwards on the mattress, Fox was pulled down with her. Ninety kilos of clone, coming to land hard, compressed in wave that flung her back up. Their torsos smacked together, and Fox thought Riyo Chuchi might laugh herself to death; and before it was over, his own chest burned, breathless with happiness, tight with the suspense of what might happen next.

Eventually, Riyo calmed. She beamed up at him. Her bright eyes were wet with delirious joy. 

Dead stars, she was _small._ Fox looked at the impossibly petite body beneath him — then he spotted his cock, heavy and overlarge, hanging in her delicate direction. His groin clenched in anticipation. But it was all wrong. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he said, quietly.

“Why would you?”

It took a moment for Riyo’s playfulness to register. She _would_ make him say it. She wanted to hear him say, _my cock is so big, I’m afraid it won’t fit — and if it does, it’ll be wearing your heart as a party hat._

His face burning, Fox ducked his head. “My arms might give out. You’d be crushed."

Riyo stroked his biceps, and Fox suddenly knew why he'd spent all those stupid-dark-thirty hours in the gym with Dodger. “I have the utmost faith in your arms. Besides, I’m not made of glass, as we've seen. Maybe I want to be smothered into this mattress,” she said.

“I have an oath to maintain.”

“Something, something, ‘I will dedicate myself to the Republic’s legitimate servants with all my strength’? That oath?”

He was thinking of the final line, about the RCMJ, with its big, bad catch-all article about conduct unbecoming, but ... “Yes.”

“Like I said,” she said, stroking his shoulders, “your strength is not in question. You will not hurt me. You never have.”

She seemed very sure. Fox didn’t want to ask how she knew — to make her choose between a lie and his feelings.

Riyo cupped his face. “Come here,” she said, pulling him down to her lips. 

The mouthfeel of her sex had cleaved to his tongue, and with her own she worked it free, drinking down his lust and hers in equal measure. Fox shivered beneath a building sweat. She circled her legs around his hips, drawing those down, too. He was glad she’d gotten his first load out. Frotting into the crease under her ass without blowing again was hard enough. Planking onto his elbows, Fox tucked his arms under her shoulders, keeping his weight off her, hugging her up to him as he kissed her with a greed that almost scared him.

He trailed his lips down her jaw. Along her chest, chinning the softness of her breast. He found her pink nipple and sucked, plucking it in and out of his mouth, stupidly thrilled by its jiggle. And how breathless Riyo became when he twisted and flicked the hard nubs like the series of dials in her bathroom. He wondered, by the desperate sound of her, if he could make her squirt again. There was a puzzle to figure out there, if he had the time. 

Riyo punched his shoulder. “Fox, _please,_ ” she whined. “My cunt’s going blue.”

“Mmm.” He nibbled her nipple once more, popping it from his lips. “The rest of you is blue.”

“I’ve heard you rail against the color.”

“You and the sky get a natural pass. Boys in blue, that trio of turds—they can get fucked, yes.”

“My cunt needs to get fucked! Right _now,_ if you please!” She groaned and bucked, shoving her hand down between them, fumbling for the cock she couldn’t reach.

Only in Riyo Chuchi were politeness and vulgarity so perfectly married. It added a veneer to all the filthy, selfish things Fox wanted to do.

He wrapped her face in his hands. He loved how breathtaking her features were. He hated that he knew exactly how to snap her skull from her neck.

It was the galaxy — maybe even the Force, if it cared to advise a clone — reminding him that he was bred for violence. How could he _not_ hurt her? 

But Riyo, who refused to hold any weapon, was holding Fox like she’d die if she didn’t. Like her life would blink out. How could he refuse her? She trusted with him with her heart and her softest parts; he could snap his own neck just as easily if he broke that trust. He'd probably disappoint, but her wish was ever his command. 

And there was ... something else. A black void between his ribs, where the rest of the army’s fly-by-night freedom hollowed out his sympathy. He was lonely.

 _Commander Fox is the law. Fuck the law and it’ll fuck you back._

The law of probabilities alone made it so.

He’d let his desperation run away with him, once. Reaper, his kama lined with blackmail and stitched with secrets, could always be counted on to remind Fox of it. He almost certainly knew about Riyo. But what happened here, on this mattress, was just between Fox and her. “You must tell me how to go. _Promise_ you’ll be honest,” he said.

“I promise,” Riyo nodded. “But pleasure and pain often wear the same face. Don’t judge mine.”

“Okay.” He already didn’t like this. But Fox reached between her legs, feeling her wet interest. His finger slipped in easily. Her thin noise of delight was encouraging. 

“That’s it! Yes, yes, _yes_ ...”

Fox slipped another in. And squeezed in a third. His spring could not have been wound tighter, to feel the grip of Riyo’s cunt. Warmer than warm. Squishy, like the fingers of a glove filled with bacta. Leaking like it, too. Fox fumbled around for the hand towel he’d had the presence of mind to bring and tucked it under her bottom. 

Riyo trembled as he rocked his hand into her. She loosened a little, her legs relaxing. “Now you, if you’re ready, now you —” she whined, pawing around between them in the direction of his dick.

Finally, Fox gripped himself with fingers that were deliciously wet with her. He thumbed his slit, spreading his leaky excitement over his head to ease the infil; and he lined himself up against her puffy folds, a big fat missile where det cord might have served.

And slowly, as if to escape his own notice — but not too slowly, lest he think of an excuse to stop — he pressed forward.

A current of want burned beneath Fox’s skin. It _screamed_ for him to thrust. It’d been so long since he’d felt the warm clench of anything but his own hand. Time enough in clone-years — time enough to unlearn perverted habits. He’d hardly allowed himself to even _think_ about it. Not since the first natborn he’d looked at twice had made it as plain as a piss-drunk pilot that she thought Fox was something lesser.

Fox breathed deep, concentrating on the grip of Riyo’s fingers around his arms, the press of her spongy flesh against him. Listening to _her_ breath. Trying to get a read on her. When he watched his cockhead disappear into her pink slit, Fox could neither breathe nor concentrate. Everything he was felt scooped down to somewhere behind his balls. Riyo Chuchi was in his arms. Incredible. Impossible. And his cock was _inside_ her, filling her up. 

How was he still planetside? 

Fox had stood on Corrie’s tallest cloudcutters. He’d inverted his bike out above the Works, high on octane fumes and adrenaline, going belly-up before he could punch through the atmosphere. Nothing swooped his guts like this — the slow give of Riyo's body beneath him. He struggled to keep his face a careful blank. To belie how frenzied he felt. How much he hungered for her.

Riyo exhaled, nasally and sharp.

Fox froze, momentarily separating from everything happening to his undercarriage. “Fuck. Riyo, I don’t —”

“Keep going! _Keep going_ , Fox,” she urged, her fine nails stinging his arms.

Her heat was beyond anything. Fox eased deeper, giving her a long prelude in which to stop him. He was sure she would, or that any moment he’d find the end of her. It couldn't be this good. This tight bliss couldn’t extend forever —

His thighs met her ass. Fox had bottomed out. The intimacy squeezed up into his chest and caught in his throat. “Oh — my — _gods_ ,” he croaked. He dropped his forehead onto her chin, keeping his spine balled up. He was _desperate_ not to let it go.

Sleenshit, had anyone else ever felt this? And, if so, how had they _ever_ come up for air? Fox was so tense, he thought he might crystalize around this moment. He wanted to. 

“Can you move?” Riyo asked.

He’d only just got in; he didn’t want to push his luck. “If you think I can,” Fox said hoarsely.

“I think you _should._ If you really want to fuck me properly,” she teased in a sing-song voice.

Fox swore, snapping a little against that marble of flesh he felt above his tip. He pulled back a fraction, fuzzing at the sensation. He did it again. And then again. He confined his movement to his hips, his thighs straining to keep his motion small as he politely fucked her. Feeling his cock, inch after inch of intense sensation, flush and tight within Riyo's hot hidden skin. Coiling his momentum until it was a _misery_ to contain.

He dragged himself nearly out and pushed back in, slowly, groaning to feel her body envelop him a second time. The slip of her snug slit against his hood whited his brain and blackened his vision. It was exquisite. 

Tucking her heels against his lower spine, Riyo canted herself up. Her raw noises belonged to someone twice as big as she. 

Fox's core ached. It ached from building up a rhythm; it ached from holding himself against tremendous pressure, determined to push his perfect agony out by degrees; it was the _best_ fucking thing Fox had ever felt, by a Kessel mile.

Riyo moaned in time to his taut thrusts. Fox tangled his fingers into her hair, suddenly needing all of her; whatever her small body could allow and permit him. It wasn’t until she convulsed like a fried droid, his name cracking into a wail in her mouth, that he realized she’d peaked. She spasmed bodily and went totally limp. Went limp everywhere but around his cock, which felt very fat with her throaty praise.

Her orgasm coiled around the idea Fox was rubbing breathlessly against.

_The penthouse roof ... Riyo without panties ... spread wide open over his bike —_

Fox couldn’t help himself. He was gone. Purely, perfectly, primally _gone._

He crashed into Riyo, jerking like he’d been shanked. Her hot cunt pulled his pleasure out and out and out further still. The heat of their consummated fuck surged through his limbs until he felt skinless, utterly sheared with bliss.

When the fire in his pelvis settled, clarity of mind began to crawl back up. This was the moment of truest peril; Fox tensed, fearing her regret. She’d soiled herself with a clone — a bruised one, who had neither the distant pity of the people, nor the pride of his brothers. And he'd probably just hurt her, as he'd sought his own crude comfort.

Fox sank into her neck, pressing the expensive smell of her into his mind while he still could, with an apology forming in his throat. 

_“Wow,”_ Riyo breathed at last. “That really happened.”

“Yeah ...” 

“It should happen again.”

Whatever tension Fox had left finally rolled from his shoulders. “Yeah?” 

“Without question. Once I learn how to walk again.”

Fox squeezed her into his chest, where a fist of tender feelings had lodged. “I’ll carry you. Wherever you want to go,” he reminded her. 

"Don’t tempt me," Riyo said, hugging him back.

“Tempt you?”

“To make you fuck me into a wall.” 

Fox had to muffle his groan of longing into her hair. There must be something in the water here, where he might spill and spill again and still find lust within him. And there was definitely something in her: ten pounds of sexy in a two pound bag. 

He slipped out from her, sloppily, and gently dabbed her dry with the towel's clean corner. Not quite the ablution he'd enjoyed, but he had to own it: he was too damn tired to lick her clean. Fox finally sank into satisfied stillness. “It’d be my pleasure. If you can keep the decorators from hanging too many pictures,” he mumbled, though thinking she’d look very fine pressed into a frame. 

Riyo squirmed to tuck herself against his side and yawned with an uncouth ease that made Fox smile. “Happily, I much prefer sculpture,” she said, rubbing his back. 

Her arm sagged, eventually. Her breathing slowed and broadened. It was better than any morning’s breeze, for it blessed his naked skin. 

Brief contentment was one thing. Fox had known moments of it. Usually skywards, on his bike. Or ten minutes’ additional sleep before his ten-minutes-early alarm, time enough to rub one out. But anxiety, a certainty that everything in a clone’s life tended to ill, was almost always sitting in the corner, silent but looming. 

Tonight with Riyo was different. Tonight saw a presence of joy, breaking cloudy atmo and coming to land, billowing all worry into the distance. 

.  
.  
.  


The galaxy was spinning differently and only Fox knew it.

The room had begun to pale with the faintest light, seeking his secret: he had slept with Riyo Chuchi.

She looked beautiful, frozen like moonlight on one of the pillows he’d fetched from the guest room. It’d be a shame to wake her. An even greater shame to leave. But when Fox finally caressed her cheek with his thumb, he at least got to watch her warm life return. 

“Yes?” she squeaked.

“I have to go, sweetheart.”

“Oh.” She stretched and scrubbed her sleepy eyes. “When can I see you again?”

Fox’s mind whirred, searching for means by which he might bump into her. But it was a recess. His tactic of finishing every circuitous, winding round of the district by passing her office door wouldn’t work. Usually, he couldn’t connive anything better. 

“Tonight?” she suggested, speaking to his hardness and flipping his stomach.

Fox's cock twitched. He could nudge her onto her back and — 

_No._ It was stupidly early for her. And Dodger would give him enough grief as it was, without a nutting to make him gooey under the weights, too. “Tomorrow night. I promise,” he said. Thire would get a night with his sweets — and any sweethearts _he_ had in the wing — for delivering on his promise of a silent comm. Then, after remembering to be humble in his bunk, Fox would dash back to this secret heaven in the clouds.

Riyo sighed. “Mmm’kay. I’ll be waiting.”

Fox bent over her, kissing her deep. “I won’t be late.”

He left her open-mouthed, yawning and ready to drool some more on her pillow. 

After quietly collecting his plates and blacks, Fox padded downstairs to the kitchen, naked. The fantasy had not only survived the drawing in of night, it had turned with a fresh face towards the day. How easy to imagine himself a natborn, risen to his rank through half his hard work — and, maybe, his influential wife. Reality was held at arm's length a little longer, as Fox loaded the dishwasher and primed the caf machine for her. Just going to work, he told himself; he’d be home in the evening, to play husband to a wonderful woman who liked to waste water on him. Oh, what a lovely recess! One could almost fancy it'd been arranged just for them. 

As he kitted up, Fox inhaled some fancy cured meat. Boxes of biscuits and packets of tuiles, jars of curd and tins of jelly rolls: all were packed into his bike. Choruk would probably get the lot, after Thire made a hoovering pass. They knew what was good for them and kept their sugar-pitted teeth tight.

Wandering back into the kitchen, Fox decided he _must_ return soon: there was now just enough room among the treats to unwrap the finest and most delicious one and devour her all over again. 

The backpack he reserved for personal goodies. The fingered haselnutta. The marchpane fish. The box of sweet-sand cookies not destined for Wint.

The paper was nearly buried under all this sugar.

 _There is no occasion when a hand-written note is not appropriate._

Or, as Stone might say: _finish the fucking drill._

Mustering himself, Fox tiptoed back upstairs, wondering how ARCs didn’t wake Sep space making this much plastoid noise. 

Riyo was still perfectly dishevelled around a pillow. She slept on. 

He would tuck the note under the crystal fox. Leaving it under her pillow risked someone else finding it. Too salacious. No decorator would mess with a shrine. 

Unfolding the paper, Fox contemplated it one last time. He’d struggled with one word in particular, the longest of them all, but he’d been determined to get it right: a demonstration of how persistent his love for her was. Her goodness would forgive the scrawl, he was sure. 

  
  
_**For Riyo.**_  
_**Ever faithfully yours,**_  
_**Fox.**_

**Author's Note:**

> Again, with thanks to tiend for everything, especially giving Riyo such a delicious home so that I might write Fox enjoying all manner of delights within it, earthly and heavenly ♥
> 
> The concept of _kettuli_ comes from the Finnish tradition about the aurora borealis ("revontulet"), which was too perfect to pass up.
> 
> [Fox's Bike](https://countessofbiscuit.tumblr.com/post/622294980964302848/foxs-bike) ♥


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